Harry Potter and the Tournament of Houses
by AntaresTheEighthPleiade
Summary: Scheming goblins, ancient treaties, Animagus transformations, inter-House rivalries taken to a new height, missing werewolves, insane professors... Just another year in the life of Harry Potter, twin of the false Boy-Who-Lived.
1. French Holidays

Disclaimer: This entire fic is hereby disclaimed. That means that I'll totally pwn you in lawsuits if you try to sue.

This is the fourth book in the _Saga of the Lightning Speaker_, which means that you should really go back and read _Harry Potter and the Sorting Hat's Gift_ and its sequels first. You should also read _Behind and Between,_ which contains deleted scenes from the series. Also, I'm now taking requests for _Behind and Between._

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><p><em>T<em>_he leaders of those days understood that they must make their choice- not just the clan lords of our own people, but also the archons of the centaurs, the chieftains of the mer, the ladies of the veela, the dwarven lords, the lycanthropic alphas. All of the so-called 'magical sentients' had to decide, and quickly. _

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_The History of the Treaty),_ translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

Harry James Potter- or, as he was known in this form, Pollux Ophion Riddle- knew full well the value of patience. He had learned it both through Voldemort's memories and through his own experience.

But there were times when patience seemed so much less valuable than the pure, simple satisfaction of vaulting over the desk and throttling the source of his ire.

Those moments had been happening much more frequently lately.

The goblin smiled, revealing pointed fangs. He knew exactly what kind of effect his stubborn pigheadedness was having on his guest.

Pollux fixed his best death glare on the smarmy little paper-pusher. Had he been Saysa, the glare alone would have solved his problems- the goblin would have been Petrified. Unless, of course, she had resumed her ordinary form to loose the full force of her killing gaze. Harry didn't think that she would have done so- the Guardian was almost one thousand and eighteen years old, old enough to be patient- but this goblin was particularly infuriating. Perhaps she would have given into the temptation and destroyed him.

Or not. It was a pleasant little fantasy, at any rate.

At that lovely thought, a cold smile spread over Pollux's illusionary face. The goblin's eyes narrowed. He didn't trust this sudden smirk.

"A pity," the Slytherin drawled, "that your leader still isn't ready to speak with me. I thought that Ragnok was more organized than that."

The goblin's nostrils flared. He was just a secretary, but not even the lowliest of his kind liked hearing their leader insulted. "What was that, _Master Riddle?_"

Harry kept his face impassive. Inside, though, he was cheering. The goblin had shown anger first. He, Harry, had won.

"It has been over a month since Alpha Ulfhednar provided proof that the werewolves are cured," he explained. "My comrades and I had a deal with Ragnok- he would listen to us, help us, if we proved ourselves by saving the werewolves. _We_ have proven ourselves. _He_ has not."

"What are you implying?" the goblin growled.

"I'm not implying anything," Harry replied, voice low and dangerous. "I'm simply observing that a month and a half after I fulfilled my end of our bargain, Ragnok has done nothing to fulfill his. Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say that he was ignoring me on purpose."

"He is busy," the goblin snapped. "He has important things to do- emissaries to deal with, funds to raise, things like that."

"Why didn't you say so?" Pollux's features morphed into a mask of surprise. In a sugary sweet voice, he continued, "If I'd known that Ragnok was too busy to deal with me, I'd have gone directly to the other races without his intercession." He reached into his pocket, extracted an old and powerful ring.

The ring had been carved by Salazar Slytherin himself, just over a thousand years ago. He had formed it out of green stone, fashioned it into an ouroboros- the serpent which devoured its own tail. Even now, centuries later, the every last one of the snake's scales was perfectly preserved, as were its golden slit-eyes and tiny white fangs.

"What are you doing?" the secretary demanded.

"Ragnok is busy," Pollux explained serenely. "Since he's too busy to even speak with me and set up my appointments with the veelas and dwarves, I'll just have to do it myself." His smile was a baring his teeth, just like the goblin's had been. "I wouldn't want to disturb his important business with little things like the fate of the world, after all. Good day." He nodded once, rolled the ring between his fingers.

Of course, he was already in indirect contact with the veelas. Hermione was on holiday in France, one of their major population centers, with her parents, and she had volunteered to use her free time to speak with Estella Papillion, the veelas' chieftain. Not to mention the local centaurs, and the local mer, and the local werewolves, to whom she was bringing the Chalice of the Moon, the legendary cure for lycanthropy.

Not that Ragnok or his kindred knew that. They arrogantly believed themselves the Lightning Speaker's only tie to the other magical races. Pollux Ophion Riddle had gathered the Fae and centaurs on his own, and the werewolves followed him out of gratitude, but surely the goblins alone could ally him with the mer and veela and dwarves?

To the goblins, the idea that Pollux could simply contact the others without their reluctant, sabotage-filled 'assistance' was a new and original concept.

"Just a moment," the goblin said quickly. He wasn't sure how to react to this new, original, and dislikeable concept, but Ragnok should probably know about it. "I'll see if he is available now."

"No need for that," Harry replied. By some miracle, he kept the smug triumph out of his voice. "_Ad insulam fundatorum._"

Magic flared, pulling him away from the goblins' bank. Half a second later, it deposited him on the rocky shores of Founders' Isle.

A black dog, which had been helping a teenage boy chase seagulls, sprinted towards him. He jumped, paws pressing against Pollux's chest, knocking him to the ground.

"SIRIUS!" the wizard howled, scandalized. "Gerroff me!"

The dog responded with a big, sloppy lick. The teenager burst out laughing.

"Get off or I'll hex you," Pollux grumbled.

The dog huffed but obeyed. He backed away. A moment later, a shaggy-haired man stood in the animal's place. "You're no fun, Pollux," he pouted.

"Blame the goblins," he grumbled.

Sirius scowled. "They stood you up _again?_"

"They stood me up again," he confirmed.

"That's stupid," the teenager said.

Dudley Dursley had changed so much that, had Harry not witnessed the transformation, he would never have believed it. Two years ago, his cousin had been a pig in a blond wig. All he'd been missing was the tail and pointy ears- he'd even had a snout.

But a months-long stint in Azkaban and several more months recuperating on Founder's Isle had done wonders for the porky boy. No longer did he resemble a living ham. He would never be thin- his build simply wouldn't allow it- but he couldn't be called fat. His thickness was due both to a wide bone structure and to the hours he'd spent helping Sirius construct buildings for the new, still-nameless 'town.'

His face had changed as well, and its transformation was even more miraculous than his body's. The snout had shrunk to a normal, though admittedly rather large, nose. His eyes were no longer buried under rolls of fat, and his hair was clean instead of covered in enough grease to make Snape proud.

In short, he bore a striking resemblance to an actual human being, something Pollux always found astonishing.

But, he thought with a tiny sigh, people _do _change. Just be glad that Dudley changed for the better, not for the worse.

"I know it's stupid," he grumbled. "Ragnok doesn't seem to realize that some things are more important than petty power plays."

Dudley nodded. It seemed he was in one of his good moods; on bad days he didn't speak to Pollux at all. Then he frowned. "But don't you need the goblins?"

"I do," his disguised cousin replied, "but not as much as they need me." His jaw clenched. "And I think it's time to remind them of that. Who else is here?"

Since the middle of July, when the werewolves of Britain had been freed of lycanthropy's curse, more people than ever had been able to access Founder's Isle. Hermione - or Pallas, as Sirius and Dudley knew her; outside of the prophesied five only two werewolves and some centaurs knew who Pollux and his friends really were - had created a trio of Portkeys that would only work for werewolves. They were hidden in the depths of the Alpha of Britain's old apartment, which had been abandoned since he left the CC (short for Concentration Camp) last December.

She had intended the Portkeys to be for emergency use only, in case someone let something slip and the lycanthropes had to evacuate. Instead, the werewolves had started using Founder's Isle in two ways: first and foremost, to keep in contact with their alpha Tyr and with Pollux's posse. Second, they thought that the thousand-year-old castle, rocky beaches, and quaint, albeit incomplete, little village made the Isle an excellent vacation spot.

Sirius began ticking people off his finger. "Tyr and Saysa, of course…."

Tyr Ulfhednar had arrived on the Isle in May after several months overseas, searching for the Chalice of the Moon. He lived in one of the first cottages Sirius had erected, a quaint little one-story with a thatched roof. Technically, he owned another property, but couldn't live there. He was a wanted fugitive who had once been accused of kidnapping several pureblood girls. That he hadn't had been known for months- Lucius Malfoy had been caught red-handed- but the Ministry hadn't bothered lifting the warrant for his arrest. He was a werewolf, after all, and he had left their slave camp. Therefore he _must_ be up to something evil.

Lady Saysa of the Chamber was the most recent addition to the Isle's permanent residents. Until just two months ago, she had dwelt in the legendary Chamber of Secrets under Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But in June, her hidden home had been invaded by Harry's twin brother Mark, who believed that she was an evil murdering beast. In the process of hunting her down, he had opened a hole in the wall that led directly into the heart of her domain. Now anyone could enter her former home by sliding down the entrance in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

"…and obviously the Sorting Hat." Sirius frowned, pulled up short. "Does the Sorting Hat count?"

"Let's say it does and leave it at that."

Like Saysa, the Sorting Hat had spent most of its thousand-year life within the protective walls of Hogwarts School. It had been in the Chamber when Mark invaded, along with the phoenix Fawkes (who sadly was still enslaved to Albus Dumbledore), and Saysa had taken it with her when she fled her former home. They had formed an odd but not unexpected friendship. No one who knew them was surprised. After all, they were the same age, had known the same people, dwelt in the same place (or at least very close to the same place) for centuries. And of course, Saysa rescuing it hadn't hurt.

The two ancient beings lived (if 'lived' was the right word; one was a _hat_, which meant that it wasn't exactly alive in the first place) in a tiny stone cottage near the foot of the castle. At first, Saysa had tried to live within the castle itself, but that hadn't worked. She was too accustomed to solitude to share with Sirius, Dudley, and the hat, not to mention all the werewolves traipsing through. She _needed _the quiet and aloneness.

"If the Sorting Hat counts, then the owl from the archons probably counts too."

Pollux smiled, finally something going right.

The archons were the four centaur leaders. Like all their people, they took prophecies and the like very seriously. They had been the first to accept him as the Lightning Speaker.

If only Ragnok were more like them….

"A bunch of dragons, but there are always dragons here."

That much was true. Saysa was a Queen of Serpents. Dragons were serpents, magically if not anatomically, and that made them her subjects. Courtiers, really- dragons were considered lords and ladies among snake kind, and they took their nobility very seriously.

Most of those dragons were Hebridean Blacks, as Founder's Isle was located in the Hebrides Isles. A few were Common Welsh Greens, who had flown up from Wales when they heard that a basilisk was on the Isle. The last dragon was a Norwegian Ridgeback, Saysa's foster-daughter Norberta.

"I think that's it," Sirius concluded, smiling innocently. "Do you think that's it, Dudley?"

"I think that's it," the Muggle agreed. He, too, was smiling.

Pollux quirked a brow, "Are you sure? Because you don't look sure."

"Absolutely positive."

"What he said."

The eyebrow continued to climb. "Who is it, then? Moony? Alexander? Bianca?"

Moony was Harry's godfather, Sirius's best friend, and Tyr's unofficial second-in-command. He was one of the few people outside the prophesied five who knew the quintet's true identities. Learning that Harry was running around the country endangering himself had put some strain into their relationship, but he couldn't deny that he was proud of the boy. And because he was proud of his godson, and because he believed wholeheartedly that Harry could change the world, he allowed him to continue his work.

With rules and a curfew, of course.

Alexander Chamberlain and Bianca Frost were the Prince of Flowers and the Daughter of Frost, respectively. They were also Neville Longbottom and Daphne Greengrass, two young teenagers disguised by Fae magic. Not that Sirius and Dudley knew that, of course, and they wouldn't learn for a very long time. Remus had given Harry a deadline for telling Sirius, and he would fulfill that- he kept his word- but Dudley…. The Muggle's relationship with Harry had certainly improved in the past half-year, but he loathed Pollux.

So Harry wasn't entirely certain if he would ever tell Dudley.

"Nope," Sirius laughed. "It's not Bianca, Al, or Moony- though Remus was here earlier, before you left for Gringotts."

"Apollo, then? Harry?"

Even after a year and a half, it was downright bizarre to refer to himself in the third person. That was Voldemort's habit, not his. Admittedly, the Dark Lord didn't talk about "Tom Marvolo Riddle" like some kind of secret identity, but….

"Nope. Not Apollo, and definitely not Harry." Sirius frowned. "Have you ever actually met Harry?"

"Yes." Pollux wasn't exactly lying- _being_ someone probably counted as meeting him- but he wasn't telling the whole truth, either. "We've had tea a couple times this summer."

Padfoot nodded, accepting the half-truth. Moony had been known to invite the five over for tea. Once he'd even had Saysa visit. "Like I said, not Harry. Keep guessing, Pollux."

"A werewolf? Tonks?"

But his question was answered as a female voice shrieked "POLLUX!" at the top of its owner's lungs.

The wizard spun around, grinning widely. The expression took years off his face, made him look- not quite his age, but much closer to it than before. "Pallas!" he laughed, engulfing the witch in a hug. "You're back!"

The petite Indian woman beamed up at him. "I'm back," she confirmed. "And it's absolutely _wonderful._"

Just under a month ago, Hermione Granger had gone to France with her parents. They had been extremely busy, touring the entire country, lounging on beaches, visiting the many historical sites. And, though Mr. and Mrs. Granger didn't know it, their daughter had spent her spare time as Pallas Dhar, speaking with France's magical creature communities, mostly centaurs and mer (with help from centaur translators, of course), but a few veela and a small pack of werewolves.

"How was France?" he asked.

"It was absolutely marvelous," she gushed. "The history there is so fascinating! Not to mention seeing the interaction between veela, centaurs, and the mer. Some of their communications rituals are simply gorgeous- I've never seen any so complex. And the laws! Did you know that every student is given a Portkey that transports them to a secure location so they can practice magic during the summer months? It's legally required for them to attend at least fifty percent of those summer practice sessions. Of course, there are some things that don't make sense- that's true everywhere- but on the whole their legal system was much more practical than ours."

Pollux rolled his eyes, but the gesture was fond. "Only you could visit one of the most beautiful countries in Europe and end up preoccupied with its education policies. Tell me, did you remember that you were supposed to be on vacation?"

"Haven't you ever heard of a working vacation?" she teased back.

"I have," he retorted. "And I firmly believe that the key word in that phrase is 'vacation,' a word of which you don't know the meaning. Please tell me you didn't spend your every waking moment pouring over dusty old tomes in dustier, older libraries."

"Of course not. We spent a great deal of time seeing the sights-"

"-reading every placard you could find-"

"-and lounging around on beaches."

"Oh, is _that_ where you brought the dusty old tomes?"

Dudley watched the interplay with curious fascination. As Pallas cheerily denied bringing dusty old tomes to the beach ("They're too delicate, Pollux; you _know_ that. I brought un-dusty, _new_ tomes to the ocean instead."), he came to one inevitable conclusion. When the witch paused for just a couple seconds, he blurted, "When are you getting married?"

Pollux and Pallas froze. Sirius guffawed.

"Er- we're not," the disguised Ravenclaw explained. She seemed somewhat perturbed by the idea. "We're not even dating. Whatever gave you the impression that we were… er… interested in each other like that?"

"You mean you aren't?"

The two magic-users shook their heads, utterly befuddled.

"Oh," he said, torn. On the one hand, he liked Pallas but not Pollux. He didn't want her to end up with him. On the other, it was a bit discouraging to be wrong all the time, especially as this was his second romance-related mistake of the week. Just two days ago he had asked Bianca point-blank if she was in love with Alexander, and had received vehement denials in return. "I just thought… you were laughing with each other."

"Well, yes, but Pollux and I laugh with lots of other people."

Dudley shrugged, looking rather depressed.

"What else happened in France?" Sirius asked, changing the subject for his ward's sake. "Handsome muscular men, romance under the Eiffel Tower, boating on the Seine, what?"

Pallas rolled her eyes. "Are you attempting to play matchmaker, Padfoot? Because you're not very good at it."

"Is it that obvious?" he gasped, fluttering his lashes. Then, "But seriously, keep talking about France. I haven't been there for… wow… it'd be almost twenty years now."

"I never knew you went to France," Pallas told him. "When was that?"

"I like this story," Dudley muttered, plopping down onto the turf to listen. He was grinning widely.

"I was fifteen," the Marauder reminisced. "Young, gorgeous, and irresistible to the fair sex, even more than I am now. I know, I know- how can that be possible? I'm not sure, honestly. However, I assure you that it was."

Pallas rolled her eyes. "You went for the beaches, didn't you?"

"I wish," he grumbled. "No, my dear old mum dragged me there kicking and screaming because she wanted to betroth me to this fat witch who was ten years my senior and had a face like a goat. I'd already made it clear to all the British purebloods that I'd be a horrible husband, if only out of resentment at being forced into marriage. My parents thought that a foreign witch might not have heard my reputation.

"For a while, I didn't even realize that they were trying to marry me off. I thought that we were visiting her- can't remember her name, sorry- for business. And in all honesty, I didn't particularly care what my parents were up to.

"We spent a few days touring the country, mostly so my parents could keep up the charade that they weren't in France to get rid of me. If a house-elf hadn't let slip the real reasons for our visit, they'd probably have negotiated the contract and I'd be stuck in France right now trying to remember how to speak English." He shuddered.

"But Merlin was looking out for me, and the house-elf _did_ slip up. So I owled James for some Dungbombs, and…. _Well. _The rest, as they say, is history." He spread his arms wide, grinning like a fool.

"Really funny history," Dudley laughed. "Sirius didn't just put the Dungbombs in the halls and stuff. No. Tell them where you put them, Padfoot."

"I never really liked French cooking," the Animagus told his captive audience. "It's always rather frightened me. So I thought, where better to put the Dungbombs than with the other unspeakably horrendous things?"

"He dumped one in the soup pot, stuffed another down the- what kind of animal was it again?"

"Nobody knows, and we're probably better off _not_ knowing."

"Well, the point is, he shoved a Dungbomb into its stomach, and he put the last one inside a huge hunk of bleu cheese."

"Because cheese is not supposed to have blue veins of disgustingness running through it."

"And he took refuge under the table half a second before it all blew up."

"And they were all so furious," Sirius concluded. "And I didn't get engaged, which is even better."

Pollux was howling with laughter. Pallas seemed torn between amusement and disapproval; she was quite glad that Sirius hadn't married some random French witch, but had _three_ Dungbombs really been necessary?

"I don't suppose you pulled anything like that, huh?" he asked, slapping her on the back.

"I'm afraid not," the Ravenclaw replied. "Unless you count going behind Ragnok's back to speak with Madame Papillion and the others."

Sirius considered. After a few seconds of thought, he announced, "I think I will count that, if only because it will annoy the goblins as much as my Dungbombs irked my family. How did that go, by the way?"

"Brilliantly!" she enthused. "They're very interested in setting up a meeting, and Madame Papillion volunteered to get in touch with Lord Bouldershoulders if Ragnok doesn't. She didn't seem happy about how Ragnok didn't contact her- she's been hearing rumors that the werewolves were free, but she didn't believe them because she thought that the goblins would corroborate them if they were true. I think that she and Lord Bouldershoulders will take our side against Ragnok, if it comes to that. Not to mention that we've got Tyr, the archons, and the Guardian herself."

"In other words," Pollux laughed, "our position is assured."

Pallas nodded. "Quite assured, at least for now."

"Good," her Slytherin friend agreed.

The Ravenclaw spent the next several minutes elaborating on her adventures in France. She was hindered by the inability to let slip that she was really Hermione Granger and her tendency to go on tangents, but no one minded. It sounded like she'd had a blast overseas- and that she'd accomplished quite a bit for their cause.

"Can you tell the others that I'm back?" she asked once she had finished. "I'd like to give my full report to the rest of us. And then…." Her eyes went bright with hope. "Is the Animagus potion ready yet?"

Pollux nodded. "It's been ready for days, and let me tell you, the others have been _so _tempted to take it. But they didn't- we were waiting for you."

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><p>Next chapter: Animagi and confusion. See you then!<p>

-Antares


	2. Animagi

_On Samhain of that year, the Guardian of the Chamber took another shape. 'twas a woman's shape, tall and dressed all in green, for on the Days of the Fae shape-shifting is not only possible, but common. _

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh (The History of the Treaty), _translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

The prophesied five scheduled their meeting/Animagus Potion taking session for the next day. They knew that the meeting portion of the session would be brief. Hermione would just update them on the situation in France, and Harry would have to confess how he'd snubbed the goblins, but they had no idea how long the Animagus visions would last.

Fortunately, they had a wealth of experience to draw on. Sirius had known about their plans to become Animagi for the entire summer, and he had already told them about his own experience. Harry had related his own terrifying vision back in spring, as had Saysa (who wasn't exactly an Animagus. She had simply relived a memory, not chased down a beast of unknown breed).

Funnily enough, neither Harry's tale nor Sirius's made the other four feel any more confident.

The meeting took place in one of Lord Voldemort's old hidey-holes. No one was particularly happy about that, but they felt they had no choice. Harry thought it would be dangerous for his friends to take the Animagus Potion while in their Fae forms, so they couldn't drink it while on Founders' Isle. The Chamber of Secrets had been compromised several months ago, so that option too was out of the question. Remus's home in the CC had become rather popular with werewolves. Harry, reasoning that _someone _would notice four unconscious children lying in Remus's bedroom, wisely decided not to hold the meeting there.

As everyone had predicted, the actual meeting was over fairly quickly. Hermione reported her experiences in France, and Harry explained his rationale for offending the goblins.

"Sure, we need them," he admitted, "but they need to remember that they need us, too. In fact, I'll bet that they need us a whole lot more than we need them. There are loads of magical races- heck, there are loads of goblin colonies. France has different goblin leaders. So do Germany and the Scandinavian countries and Spain- though I think they share leadership with Portugal. There are lots of goblins, but, at the risk of sounding arrogant, there's only one Lightning Speaker."

"And one of each of the rest of us, oh arrogant one," Blaise added.

"I know," Harry replied, grinning. "I figure, let them simmer for a while. Ragnok's arrogant, not foolish. He'll come around eventually, and hopefully this display will keep future clashes to a minimum."

"Yeah," Blaise agreed. "This was, of course, your only reason. It had nothing to do with the look on that smarmy little secretary's face."

Harry grinned devilishly but didn't answer.

"Back to business," Daphne said dryly, leaning against the wall of the abandoned manor. "I for one have been looking forward to becoming an Animagus all summer." Her lips thinned in a manner reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall.

Daphne had not had a particularly wonderful summer. Her mother had delivered a baby boy in April, the family's first son. Little Ascanius had supplanted his elder sister as Heir of Greengrass. Even worse, Daphne had become his _de facto _babysitter. Her parents, as Heads of one of the most influential Houses in Wizarding Britain, were often away from home, and they had no intention of entrusting their heir's upbringing to house-elves or their other daughter, Astoria. Their only other option had been Daphne, who did _not_ enjoy being the child's second mother. She was only thirteen, after all, and she had rather more important things to do than burp a wailing baby.

In other words, thoughts of becoming an Animagus had been all that had kept her sane throughout the past few months.

Neville winced sympathetically, laid a hand across her shoulder. His grandmother had never let him actually babysit, but at family gatherings he was usually shuttled off to the 'kiddie section' with his cousins. Most of those kiddies were younger than him, and two were still in diapers.

Guess who got to change those diapers?

So he had an idea of what Daphne was going through. The others, who had never been _blessed_ with a much younger relative, could only imagine.

The last thing the Gryffindor wanted to do was delay Daphne's transformation, but he had something important to say, and it was now or never. "Before we take the potion," he mumbled, giving his friend's shoulder a soft squeeze of apology, "…I think I should become a werewolf instead."

"What?"

"Why?"

"There are loads of werewolves."

The young wizard's cheeks went red with embarrassment. "I don't think that my form would be very useful, and you all know I'm bollocks at Transfiguration, so it will take me forever to learn to transform, and everything is completely natural for werewolves, so I thought that it'd be smarter for me to become one instead of turning myself into a bunny or something."

"First off," Daphne announced, "I somehow doubt that you would become a rabbit. Second, even if you _did,_ a rabbit would be an excellent spy. They aren't quite as glamorous as, say, lions, but they blend in much better."

Harry waited for the third reason, one he knew Daphne had thought of because it was abundantly clear to him and Blaise, but the Slytherin girl remained silent. The Parselmouth frowned. He opened his mouth, intending to tell Neville that him becoming a werewolf would tangle their lines of command- he would have to serve under Tyr instead of being the Alpha's equal- but Daphne stepped on his foot. She shot him a quick, surreptitious glare. _Not one word, Potter,_ that particular glare ordered.

He obeyed.

"She's got a point. Several points, actually," Hermione agreed. "Perhaps, Neville, if you'd taken the potion back in first year…. Maybe then you might have become a mouse. But not now. You're the First Among Lions, remember?"

"I agree," Saysa murmured. "I have watched the changes in your aura, and I can guarantee you that you are no mouse."

"You're all sure?" he asked, quiet and painfully shy.

The other five chorused their agreement- of course they were sure, how could he even think of something so silly?

"So," suggested Blaise, once the tumult of reassurances had died down, "now that that's settled, can we take the potion already? Because I'd like to wake up sometime before lunch, if it's all the same to you."

"Not going to happen," Harry laughed. "It's almost eleven."

"It's a late lunch," the other Slytherin drawled, eyes twinkling.

"Or we could just count this as lunch," Neville joked.

"Depends on how it tastes," Blaise decided.

Daphne cleared her throat, uncharacteristically impatient. The boys grinned unabashedly but stopped their banter.

Blaise had brought goblets for them to drink from. They were rather fancy, but, as he had pointed out, it wasn't every day you became an Animagus.

Harry doled out the four doses of the potion. Each of his human friends accepted their goblet with a murmur of thanks but refrained from drinking. They stared into the liquid depths, remembering the Lightning Speaker's description of his own Animagus quest.

Ironically, it was Neville- the boy who feared himself a bunny- who took the plunge. "Bottoms up," he said.

"Cheers," Blaise agreed, clacking his goblet against the others'.

Faces firm and resolute, they drank.

For a few moments, nothing happened. "Huh," Blaise observed, a little disappointed, "looks like we're not as powerf-"

As one, the four collapsed.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. It wasn't because of his friends' falls- he had expected that- but the fact that they had fallen at the _exact same moment _was a little perturbing. "What in the worlds was that?" he demanded. The hair on his neck stood at attention. "There's no way that they're so equal in power."

The time interval between drinking the Animagus Potion and falling into the trance depended on the drinker's magical power. This was one of the reasons that Muggles couldn't become Animagi- they had no magical power, so the wait would last forever. The thought that the Lightning Speaker's four companions were perfectly equal in strength…. It seemed like quite the coincidence.

Saysa considered. "Perhaps it is a result of their common destiny," she suggested. "They are bound together by prophesy and choice, and the same Fae magic runs through their veins." She blinked, activating her serpent sight. Her eyes went wide.

"What do you see?" demanded Harry, ever observant.

"Their auras have blended," she breathed.

"What?"

"I… it is as though they were in a mixing bowl, being blended together. Yet their souls are remaining quite distinct- they are just… spreading. The borders between them have disappeared."

The Parselmouth stared nervously at his friends, bitterly regretting that they'd all taken the potion at once. It had seemed like a good idea until then- certainly it would be more efficient than having them take it one at a time- but now….

"What's it mean, though?" he asked, fear making his voice shake.

Saysa shook her head. "I do not know."

* * *

><p>"What in the worlds?"<p>

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought this Animagus thing was supposed to be private."

"No offense, Neville, but I'd rather not have you as my Animagus form."

The other three wizards who had inexplicably appeared in Blaise's vision quest stopped questioning and stared at him.

"None taken," the Gryffindor said after a very pregnant pause. "But… didn't Harry say that this thing was going to be private? Not that I'm angry or upset that you're here or anything," he hastened to add, "it's just that this is… kind of weird."

"It _is_ supposed to be private," Hermione confirmed. "Three of the Marauders took the potion at the same time, and _they_ didn't share their quests."

"Yet here we are," Daphne observed.

"Wherever _here_ is," muttered Blaise.

The others fell silent. Their heads swiveled to and fro, taking in their bizarre surroundings.

Each magician was standing in a completely different landscape. The borders between the four different environs were plain to see. It was almost like someone had taken photographs of four locations and placed them side by side.

Daphne's quarter (for they were divided into perfect fourths, each of which stretched on as far as the eye could see) was covered in a thin layer of wind-sculpted snow. The sky was a cloudless, hard blue, though no sun was visible. The land was mostly flat, broken only by slight rises in the snowy dunes.

Neville's biome, directly to the right of hers, was dominated by vast rocky mountains. It was clear of snow, but the huge hills were covered in flowers and junipers. The trees were twisted, struck low by ever-present wind.

Blaise stood in a jungle, a lush green land of huge trees and hanging vines. The air there was hot and humid. The region was lit by a dim green light- sunlight filtered through the trees, which were too densely packed to allow the rays through directly.

Hermione's region was most familiar to them, for it bore a striking resemblance to the Forbidden Forest back at Hogwarts: large northern trees, their trunks covered with mosses. It was night there, though it was day in everyone else's domains. The moon hung fat and low in the sky, a silvery crescent that did nothing to blot out the stars.

"This is bizarre," Hermione muttered. She reached out a tentative hand. It seemed to strike an invisible barrier. Eyes wide, the girl stepped forward, toward Blaise's jungle. Her body collided with an invisible wall, thinner than paper but stronger than steel. "Am I the only one who seems to be trapped in her… er… place?"

The others repeated her experiment and were forced to conclude that no, she was not. Each of them was trapped inside their own biome.

"What do we do?" asked Neville faintly. He poked at the barrier between him and Daphne. "Do we sit around here and hope that Harry figures out something's wrong, or do we go hunting for our forms anyways?"

"I vote for plan B," Blaise answered. "There's no telling how long it will be before Harry realizes that something is different about our journey. And even when he does figure it out, I doubt he'll know what it is or what to do about it."

Hermione nodded. "I don't think that this has ever happened before," she admitted. "The only thing we can do is try to make our way out as quickly as possible."

"Especially Daphne," Neville observed.

The others turned to inspect her. They didn't like what they saw. Daphne's lips had gone blue with cold, and she was shaking faintly. Fortunately, her clothing had inexplicably changed to a warm parka and gloves, but there was only so long she could survive in what was obviously an Arctic environment. Daughter of Frost or no, even she was subject to the cold. With that in mind, the four wished each other luck and departed.

* * *

><p>"Obviously," Hermione muttered to herself, "my Animagus form is nocturnal." She glanced up at the night sky with its familiar constellations and crescent moon, a sky that was partially hidden by leafy boughs. "And obviously, it's some kind of forest dweller." She sighed. "It seems Harry was right- perhaps I really <em>am<em> an owl."

Actually, Harry had been joking when he suggested that Truth's Messenger might take the form of a messenger bird. At the moment, though, that particular bit had escaped Hermione's memory.

As if on cue, an owl hooted.

Hermione froze. Then, very slowly, she turned her head in the direction of the hoot.

Nothing, of course; the stars and moon were bright, but not bright enough for her to catch sight of the owl.

"Hello?" the Ravenclaw called. "Owl?"

For a long, long moment, the woods were silent. Then a hoot sounded from right behind her.

Hermione jumped almost out of her skin. She whirled around in midair, landed in a crouch. Less than ten feet away, a small brown-and-white owl watched her with immense green-yellow eyes. There was a letter strapped to its leg.

"Hello, owl," she repeated, reaching out her hand.

The bird stared at her imperiously. Hermione waited, holding her breath.

The owl leapt into the air- and flew away.

"No!" Hermione cried, running after it. But the animal was in its element, and she was not. It eluded her easily.

"No!" she cried again, several minutes later. "Owl, please. I need you. My friends need you- Harry, Daphne, Neville, Blaise, Saysa…. We need your help, your wisdom, to defeat Dumbledore."

There was a slight rustling behind her. She was tempted- oh, so tempted- to turn around and look at the source of that rustling, but she resisted the urge. No need to scare the owl away again.

"Please," she repeated, very quietly.

The bird hooted softly. Very slowly, the human girl turned.

The owl perched less than a foot from her, its leg extended.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered. Very gently, she untied the scrap of parchment. Then, frowning, she read the single, nonsensical word:

ANTIOCH.

Beneath that were two phrases, written in elaborate, old-fashioned script: WAND OF ELDER, NEVER PROSPER. WAND OF ELDER, ALWAYS PROSPER.

"What does this mean?" she wondered.

The owl crooned. Hermione sighed, smiled. "You're right. I shouldn't ignore you." She offered her arm. "I can figure this out later."

Her Animagus form accepted the offering. It sank into her skin, feathers melting into flesh, and Hermione Granger awoke.

* * *

><p>"Thank Merlin that Firenze is a ruthless teacher," Daphne murmured as she jogged across the frozen tundra. "Else I'd never have made it this far."<p>

Until joining with her friends in January, she hadn't spent a great deal of time outside in winter. Then, once she'd entered their little group, she had become subject to the centaurs' training routine. Unfortunately for the rather pampered girl, a great deal of that training routine had involved running outside in the dead of winter.

She had loathed that part of the program then. She still loathed it. But, she grudgingly admitted (if only to herself. Firenze would _never_ hear of this), there was some sense in learning to endure extremes of temperature.

But the laws of physics could not be denied, and she was getting colder every moment. Her breath fogged, coating her eyelashes with tiny ice crystals. Her toes were beginning to go numb.

If she didn't find her form soon, then….

Daphne bit her tongue. The pain of the bite forced the sickening, terrifying thought from her mind. She was _not_ going to die. She was _not._

She was Daphne Greengrass, Daughter of Frost, and she would make it out alive.

Something pressed against her leg. The Slytherin, who had been staring straight ahead, trying to make out her form, tripped. The thing that had touched her yelped indignantly.

Daphne pushed herself into a sitting position. So did the other.

It was a little canine with a long, luxurious tail; intelligent amber eyes; a dainty, pointed snout; and pure white fur: an arctic fox.

The fox glared at her, plainly offended by the human who'd had the gall to trip over her. She huffed. Her breath fogged, just as Daphne's had.

"Hello," the human said, very quietly. She stretched out her hand, offering to stroke it. The vixen pranced away.

Daphne scowled. Her patience was worn thin. "Listen-"

The vixen's ears flattened against her skull. Her tail puffed up, making her seem larger than before.

Daphne wilted. She didn't know how the knowledge had come into her mind, but she understood why the canine had been so upset. Slowly, she removed her glove, then squatted down and waited for the animal to come back.

Amber eyes met ice-blue, and the fox pressed her head into Daphne's palm.

The world melted.

* * *

><p>"What a view," Neville murmured, gazing out across a gorgeous panorama. He could see parts of his own 'animal place,' for wont of a better description, as well as segments of the others'. His friends' worlds stretched on as far as the eye could see, only ending at the invisible walls, which kept the four realms apart.<p>

Unfortunately, marvelous as the view was, it did not contain any animals.

Neville sighed heavily, turned to face the opposite direction. Nothing.

He wished he knew what to look for. Definitely not a lion, despite wh-

_Ow!_

Something slammed into him, a compact mass of muscle that knocked him to his knees. He fell headfirst into a patch of mountain flowers. His nose collided with the ground, broke, bled.

"Ow," he moaned, sitting. "Bud buz da fo?" He looked around, searching for the thing that had attacked him, but saw nothing.

"Bell," he muttered, squeezing his nose in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding, "ad leasd idz nod a mouse."

The animal… bleated? Confused, the Gryffindor turned his head.

A small ram, just barely out of lamb-hood, darted several feet away from him before pausing and looking back. Its fleece was brown and curly, and two tiny horns were just beginning to sprout from its forehead. Unlike Neville, it seemed comfortable in its environment, sure and fleet-footed. It bleated again, a questioning sound.

The Gryffindor thought he understood what it was asking (though, as it was an animal, he had no idea how it could be asking anything at all, nor did he much care). He scowled at it, not approving of the question.

"Ob course I tod I'd be a mouse," he snapped. "I'b nod lige Harry ad de odders- I'b nod brabe lige dem."

The young ram pawed the ground. Clearly it was prepared to charge him again.

"I'b nod!" Neville cried.

The ram charged. Neville scrambled aside, but not quickly enough to avoid its budding horns. "Ow! Dad hurd! Aren'd you subbosed to _helb_ be?"

Another bleat, this one contemptuous. _I am helping you, bonehead._

"Do you're nod! You're jus- why am I doin dis? You're an anibal. A sheeb." He grimaced. "A sheeb. Bell, I subbose I shouddn'd be surbrized."

The ram snorted, stalked away.

"Waid!" Neville leapt to his feet. "You ab do helb- don' go!"

The ram paused, but it did not return to its human. Instead, it glared at him, bleating up a storm.

Neville grimaced. "You're ried. I shuddn'd be so hard on byselb. Ib… ib I do dad, will you…?" His voice trailed off, for the ram had given its answer. It was approaching him. Though sheep are not particularly expressive creatures, Neville imagined that his was smiling.

He touched its soft, woolly head. Then he opened his eyes.

* * *

><p>"Here, beastie beastie beastie…. <em>Here, <em>beastie…." Blaise slapped another vine out of his way, then paused to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Show up already, will you? I'm dying of heatstroke here."

A large (though only half-grown) cat, short tawny fur covered in dark spots, jumped from the tree before him to the ground.

Blaise did what anyone would do when confronted by a large, sharp-toothed predator: he yelled.

The cat- a jaguar, he realized- seemed to smirk. It trotted away, tail twitching jauntily.

"Hey," Blaise snapped, recovering from his shock, "you can't just do that." He jogged after the animal. It responded by jumping into another tree.

The Slytherin scowled. "Bloody beast," he growled. "I'm not good at climbing trees!"

The jaguar licked its paw.

Oh, wonderful. His animal was a smart aleck. Well, he had to admit he wasn't surprised- he was rather sarcastic himself- but _seriously?_

"Stupid cat," he grumbled, hauling himself onto a branch. "And stupid- hey, don't leave!" For the feline had simply leapt to another tree, where it resumed grooming itself.

Blaise's scowl deepened. He wasn't foolish enough to suppose that he could catch a jaguar in its natural habitat (at least, not anymore). How, then, was he supposed to convince it to join with him?

He pondered the question for a few minutes.

How had he attracted the beast in the first place? All he'd done was call for it, ask it to come down. Would that work again?

Well, he reasoned, no harm in trying.

"Mind coming down?" he asked hopefully.

The jaguar's self-ministrations stopped. It looked down on Blaise with large, mirror-like eyes.

The Slytherin smiled ruefully. "I know. Why _should_ you go out of your way to help someone? Especially since that might mean making sacrifices, believe me, kitty cat, I know exactly how you feel." He trailed off into silence for a few moments before nodding. "But I can guarantee that it's worth it."

The jaguar pounced.

* * *

><p>"I'm starting to get worried," Harry said quietly. "They've been under almost half an hour, and no one's showed any signs of waking up. Not to mention Daphne and Blaise…."<p>

A few minutes ago, he had noticed that Daphne's otherwise motionless body was shaking, and Blaise's forehead was covered in sweat. He'd cast Heating and Cooling Charms on them, respectively, but that hadn't alleviated their symptoms. He could only suppose that they were somewhere very cold and somewhere very hot.

"Their colors have not changed," Saysa sighed. For once, she looked… not quite her age, but much older than her human body appeared to be. "They are still mingled."

Harry groaned. "Wake up soon…."

As though his call had summoned them, the four companions of the Lightning Speaker, acting as one, opened their eyes.

* * *

><p>This was a fun chapter to write.<p>

Owls: messengers, associated with Athena, wisdom, air animals.

Arctic fox: cunning of foxes and coolness.

Ram: symbol of power, strength, etc. Also adult form of meek little lambs.

Jaguar: associated with Tezcatlipoca, eyes like mirrors, power.

Can anyone guess what the owl's message meant? No? Thought not. : )

-Antares


	3. Dudley's Apocalypse

_They came together, all the leaders, for their threads were tied together in the great tapestry of life. –Sayern nar-Hazozh, (The History of the Treaty)_, translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

"Oh, good." Harry slumped with relief. "You're not dead."

"Are you all right?" Saysa's words, while a great deal more practical than Harry's, were no less filled with concern.

"We're fine," they chorused.

Neville pushed himself to his feet. "Did you guys really show up in my vision, or was I just hallucinating?"

"Technically, the entire vision was a hallucination," Blaise pointed out. "But yeah, you were in my head. Remember, I said that I didn't really want you as my Animagus form?"

"Wait," said Harry, astonished, "you guys _shared_ your visions?"

"I was in the Arctic," Daphne reminisced. "Blaise, you were in some kind of jungle-"

"South or Central America, I think," he agreed.

"-Hermione was in a forest-" The Ravenclaw nodded "-and Neville was in the mountains."

"And we couldn't get into each other's… um… places," Neville added. "And Daphne was really, really cold, so we agreed to find our forms before she froze to death."

"And now," Hermione concluded, "we seem to have all awakened at the same time."

"You did," Harry confirmed. "And you're right. You did all wake up at the exact same moment. But seriously, you experienced a _shared vision?_" He couldn't get over that. "That's not normal, mates."

"We established that," Daphne assured him dryly.

"Their auras have unmingled," Saysa observed.

"What?" asked Blaise. "What d'you mean, 'our auras have unmingled'?"

"I meant exactly what I said," Saysa answered. "When you entered your trances, I looked at you with the serpent sight. Your not-colors were bleeding into each other. Now, though, they are separate again, doubtless because you have returned."

"That's creepy," Blaise announced.

"It's fascinating," Hermione disagreed. "Especially since it's undoubtedly why we shared our experiences. Well, at least at first."

"It's still creepy," the Smoking Mirror grumbled, but he said it too quietly for Hermione to hear.

Neville decided (quite wisely) to change the subject. "I'm a sheep," he announced. "What're you all?"

Hermione blushed. "An owl of some kind. I don't know the exact species, but it was rather small, didn't have ears, and its plumage was brown and white. I need to research the exact type, of course, but I'll know by the time school starts up again."

Blaise raised a brow. "Aren't you afraid of heights? Why're you a bird if you're afraid of heights?"

She grimaced. Apparently, the brightest witch of her age hadn't thought of that.

Harry patted her shoulder. "Don't worry," he advised. "Flying's different when you're a bird. It's more instinctive. Animagi might not have a complete animal spirit like the werewolves do, but it doesn't take long to learn how to use our new forms. And if you need help flying, I'll teach you." He paused, considered. "Did anyone else get a bird form? Because I'll teach you too."

The others shook their heads.

"Okay, then. We've got a sheep and an owl. What're you two?"

"Jaguar," Blaise announced. He grinned. "A jaguar with my sense of humor."

"Merlin help us," Daphne muttered.

All eyes focused on her. The other five waited expectantly. "I am an arctic fox," she told them.

"It suits you," Blaise decided.

"All our forms suit us," Neville agreed.

"Not yours," Hermione disagreed. "I honestly can't- oh, I understand now!" She beamed. "You're a young ram, Neville."

"Er… isn't that just another word for a male sheep?"

"Well, yes," she admitted, "physiologically speaking, but rams have completely a different symbolic meaning than sheep."

"So it's a sheep, but it isn't a sheep?" Neville seemed skeptical.

"Exactly," Hermione confirmed. "Sheep represent foolishness, gullibility, weakness- or, in the Christian tradition, a flock in desperate need of a shepherd. Rams are symbols of strength and virility and protection. They're powerful animals, Neville- practically every god worth his salt in the ancient Mediterranean world was associated with one."

The Gryffindor still looked rather dubious, but he was willing to accept Hermione's claims. Or, barring that, he didn't want to bother arguing.

"Okay," said Harry, who had been watching the proceedings with some amusement, "now that we've established that Neville is a ram instead of a sheep- don't look at me like that, you know you are- could someone please explain the shared vision thing to me?"

That, of course, meant that the ever-enthusiastic Hermione got to explain. The others had long ago learned how futile it was to say something when she wanted to speak.

Harry listened to her description with steadily widening eyes. "And this is what the rest of you remember, right?" he asked, wanting to confirm it. The others nodded. "Merlin's beard, that's bizarre. I wonder, will there be any other effects?"

His friends hadn't thought that far ahead.

"If there _are,_" Blaise said slowly, clearly thinking aloud, "and I'm not saying that there will be, but if there _are,_ then it will probably have something to do with the forms themselves or with dreams, because the vision we experience was pretty similar to a dream. Especially one of my prophetic Dreams."

"Are you saying that we have more than one form?" Neville gasped incredulously.

"I don't think so," Blaise admitted, "but then again, I didn't think we'd end up in the same vision, either."

Harry was nodding. "It's common knowledge that two people, much less a group of four, _can't_ experience the same Animagus quest. You guys have obviously broken with common knowledge once, so why not again? Multiple Animagus forms are supposed to be impossible, but…." He shrugged eloquently. "We've done lots of impossible things. The word doesn't really seem to apply to us."

How right he was, a Horcrux-child with the memories of a man. Beside him stood the Lady of the Chamber, a basilisk in almost-human form, who had acquired her second body through a combination of Fae magic and the Animagus Potion. The room's other residents included the first known weather witch in two hundred years, a Seer powerful enough to experience visions of the past as well as of the future, the Herbology prodigy who had cracked the Chalice of the Moon's code, and a genius who had created the world's first anti-dementor amulets.

"Perhaps not," Saysa agreed.

"Or perhaps not," Daphne mused. "You _did_ say that our auras had un-mingled, that we were unconnected once again."

Saysa acceded her point.

Hermione considered. "But we only absorbed our own animals," she pointed out. "I think that if there are any lasting effects- and like you said, Blaise, that isn't guaranteed- that they will somehow involve dreams."

"There's only one way to find out, though," he sighed. "We just have to wait and see."

* * *

><p>By this time, summer was almost over. The dog days, Sirius called them, grinning widely.<p>

Harry and Blaise went to Diagon Alley together to get their school supplies. They spent an enjoyable afternoon eating ice cream and speculating about the new Defense and Potions professors. Since both Lockhart and Snape had been horribly mauled by acromantulas that May, neither could (or, truth be told, wanted to) teach. In Snape's case, it was because he was physically incapable- several upper-level potions required both hands to brew correctly. In Lockhart's, it was out of humiliation. He had screamed like a little girl when the spiders had attacked, and rumor had it that his once-pretty face was covered in scars.

In Harry's opinion, it served the fraud right.

"What about the VV?" he asked as they settled down for supper at one of the cafes. "We've got how many articles for that?"

"I dunno," Blaise responded. "That's probably Hermione's area of expertise- she's the one who's spoken most with Luna, so she knows the media biz best."

Harry rolled his eyes. "_Everything_ is Hermione's area of expertise. But you're right; I should be talking to her instead. Unless you have any brilliant ideas that I just _have_ to listen to?"

"Yeah. Start publishing before Christmas." He leaned back in his chair, tapped a finger to his chin. "I'd send out the first copies… um… late September, early October. That's when everyone's settled into his school-year routine but before life gets hectic. That way, they'll have lots of spare time to think about the articles."

"Good plan. You ever had the shepherd's pie here?"

"Once. Trust me, Harry, unless Remus has been starving you for the past three months, you won't be able to finish it."

"But is it good? If it is, I'll get a take-out box."

"Take-out box?"

Who would have thought that the wizarding world didn't have doggie bags? Harry spent the rest of their meal explaining the Muggle concept.

After returning to the CC, Remus announced that he and his godson were going to visit Sirius and Dudley, who apparently had some news for them. "Did they say anything about this to you?" the werewolf asked.

Harry shook his head. "Nope. I had no idea they had news. Wonder what it's about?"

"We'll find out soon enough. Are we taking your Portkey or the communal one?"

"Yours," his godson replied.

Remus smiled. "That's the paranoia speaking again, isn't it?"

Harry grinned sheepishly. "Is it really that obvious?"

"Yes."

He wagged a finger. "But you're not paranoid when they're really after you."

"Sirius isn't 'really after you,' Harry."

"Thank you, Moony, for ruining my superb comeback."

"You're welcome, Pinions."

Harry had expected that Sirius would be the one to deliver the news. He was a more active and, quite frankly, interesting person than Dudley was. Sure, his cousin had been getting a lot better these past few months- living on an island without electricity tended to make one more creative, if nothing else- but the Parselmouth didn't think that the Muggle had progressed enough to come up with news of his own.

For once in his life, he was glad to be proved wrong.

Dudley beamed at his guests, wizards both, one of whom was his formerly despised cousin. "I'm going back to school!" he announced.

Harry's jaw nearly dropped off his hinges. He couldn't have been more surprised if Dudley had sprouted wings and flown off into the sunset.

Dudley was going to school again? And not just voluntarily, it seemed- he sounded _happy_ about the prospect. _Dudley Dursley _was _happy_ about going to _school._

Sweet Merlin, the world must be ending. There was really no other explanation.

The Muggle grinned. It had been years since he'd seen Harry so stunned. The younger boy was always so cool and collected, a bit like Pollux, really. Now he was gawking like a bird that had flown into a window.

"You're- what?" The young wizard squeaked. He cleared his throat, repeated, "Sorry? Did you really just say you were going back to school?"

Dudley nodded. "Yeah. Education's good for you, you know."

Harry's mouth worked soundlessly. Who was this and what had he done with his cousin?

"Congratulations," said Remus. The werewolf knew of Dudley's academic reputation (or rather, his lack thereof), but knowing something and witnessing it were two very different things. He had much less trouble believing that the Muggle wanted to return to school. "But- er- don't you think that's a bit dangerous?"

The smile faded from Dudley's face. "What d'you mean, dangerous?"

"Well," the werewolf replied, wondering how to phrase this, "the official story in the Muggle world is that you were kidnapped by a highly dangerous criminal. What if someone recognizes you?"

"Oh, that." Sirius waved negligently. "We figured that out months ago. Behold!" He waved his wand, and Dudley's blond hair darkened to deep brown. The Muggle rummaged through his pockets, extracted a pair of glasses and perched them on his nose.

Sirius beamed. "We figure that between the disguise, the weight loss, the growth, and the time difference- I supposedly kidnapped him months ago, so most people will have forgotten about him by now- no one will know."

Harry shut his mouth. He didn't want to catch any flies, after all. "What about transpo- oh, _that's _why you got him a broomstick for his birthday!"

Sirius nodded smugly. "Like I said, we've been planning this."

The Parselmouth blinked several times. His rational mind was trying (and mostly failing) to come to terms with what he was seeing. Had he gone mad, or was Dudley Dursley _really_ going to magically disguise himself and fly a broomstick just so he could attend secondary school?

His earlier assessment was right. The end simply _must _be nigh.

"The alternative was riding dragon back," the Muggle pointed out. "And I really don't think that they'd let me."

They spent the next hour or so discussing Dudley's plans. As Sirius boasted, he and his ward really _had_ thought out their strategy. They had scouted out the nearest town (in disguise, of course), searching for a place for Dudley to land and hide his broom. Once they'd found the perfect spot, Sirius had enchanted it so that only Dudley could deposit and take things out of it.

After finding a storage place, the two had busied themselves with being seen around the town. It was small enough that the residents noticed the strangers right away. Sirius (going under the pseudonym Ryan Grey), told the locals that he was a fisherman who had recently moved to one of the outlying islands, which he was planning to develop. They bought his story hook, line, and sinker.

"Incredible," said Harry faintly. "How did you arrange all this without anyone noticing?"

Sirius shrugged. "Well, we're on the middle of an almost abandoned island. The dragons don't really care. Saysa's and the hat have been busy playing therapist to each other, and Tyr's been conspiring with his werewolf buddies."

"That makes sense, I suppose," the boy admitted. "Still, Dudley, I'm surprised you even wanted to go back to school."

The Muggle glanced away. "Well," he mumbled, embarrassed, "education _is_ important, but also…. It'd be nice to see some people my own age again, you know? You're the only kid I've had contact with all summer, and with you off at school…." He trailed off, blushing furiously.

This only served to confirm Harry's suspicion that the end was nigh. Was Dudley implying that he would actually miss him when he went back to Hogwarts? No, not possible.

But it _was, _and he _was_.

The Parselmouth shook his head in amazement. "Remus, do we have a panic room? Because if we don't, we need to get one, then we need to nuke-proof it and stock up on food and water and zombie-fighting equipment, because I'm not sure what form this apocalypse will take. All I know is that it's coming, and soon."

Dudley blinked at him. "Well, yeah. Isn't that what the Lightning Speaker showing up means?"

Harry choked.

Remus, fighting back laughter, couldn't resist discomfiting his godson more. "Does Pollux know you think he's a harbinger of worldwide doom?" he asked Dudley.

"Doesn't everyone think so?" the Muggle replied, honestly surprised. "Because that's what I thought all those prophecies were about- how he's gonna destroy the world."

_No wonder Dudley doesn't like me_, Harry thought. "No, that's what happens if he fails."

"Oh." Dudley looked embarrassed. "Right, then."

The two adults wisely decided to change the subject back to the upcoming school year. "So, Harry, are you trying out for Quidditch?" Sirius queried.

The younger wizard shook his head. "I'll be busy enough, what with Better than Binns and avoiding the apocalypse and all." Not to mention saving the world and/or causing aforementioned apocalypse.

"You sure?" Sirius wheedled. "Because you're an amazing flyer, even better than James. And after-" But here he cut himself off.

Harry sighed. "And after my row with Mark last year, it would be therapeutic to play against him."

"Well…." A faint blush glazed Sirius's cheeks. "Well, yeah."

At the very end of the school year, Harry had snapped. He'd known about Mark's attack on Saysa- an attack which had very nearly ended in her death- for quite some time and had managed to hold back his anger, but at the Leaving Feast, his fool brother had gone up and _boasted_ about almost skewering the poor basilisk.

Harry had managed to restrain himself until the very end of the feast. Then he'd stalked after Mark with all the subtlety (though considerably more restraint) of a hurricane.

Mark, of course, hadn't understood why Harry was so mad. He didn't know about his brother's association with Saysa, and he honestly believed that he'd been doing the school (and world at large, for that matter) a huge favor by bravely frightening the monster off. Harry could hardly explain his rationale without giving away his other identity, so he was forced to say that Mark could have been killed.

The ersatz Boy-Who-Lived had not taken that well. He'd called Harry an overprotective, glory-obsessed prat who was meddling in something that was none of his business.

Fortunately, Professor Flitwick had stopped them before things got more serious, but the brothers hadn't written to each other all summer.

"I can't do that because I don't know what to do about Mark," Harry confessed in a rare show of vulnerability. "I admit that part of me wants to antagonize him more, because his attack on Saysa- she's my friend, and I have the awful feeling that he only attacked her for his own glory. But at the same time, he did seem pretty concerned about the school, and he didn't know, and Dumbledore was manipulating him…." He grimaced. Then, in a carefully light voice, "But enough about me and Mark. Tell me another story about Dad's Quidditch career."

Sirius glanced at Remus as though asking for permission. Perhaps he was- Harry wasn't _his_ godson. The werewolf shrugged helplessly.

"All right, then," Padfoot acquiesced. "Lemme think…." His face split into a grin. "Have I told you about his game against Ravenclaw in our sixth year?"

"No."

"You haven't?" exclaimed Remus, stunned. "Sirius, that was his crowning moment! How could you _not_ have told him?"

"I honestly don't know."

"So what happened?" Harry asked. For once, the usually stoic thirteen-year-old was acting his age.

Sirius laughed. "Oh, Merlin, what _didn't _happen? For starters, an augury somehow ended up on the Quidditch pitch…."

The remainder of the summer passed in much the same way. Harry spent his mornings training as both himself and Pollux. He spent his afternoons on the Isle, conspiring with his friends and trying to set up a meeting between the races. Ragnok had finally gotten the message, so he at least was being cooperative, but it was difficult to find a time when all the leaders would be available. They had many responsibilities, and Harry couldn't just ask them to abandon their duties to meet with him.

Not that he didn't want to, of course.

Finally, September first rolled around again.

"This isn't right," Harry grumbled. "Remus should be allowed to take his godson to the station- er, no offense, Tonks."

His Auror-trainee escort nodded. "None taken, Harry. I know what you mean. It's wrong that Moony can't bring you here himself."

The boy heaved a sigh.

Tonks flinched. She didn't like seeing her young friend so depressed. "Hey, you'll see him again soon. And you know he's with you in spirit, or whatever the cliché comfort phrase is."

As she'd intended, her flippant remarks drew a laugh from the young wizard. "You're right, of course," he agreed. "And even better, I have the lovely Miss Hedwig here." The owl hooted in agreement. "I suspect, m'dear, that you'll be getting a lot of exercise this year."

Birds, having no lips, were incapable of grinning. Nevertheless, Hedwig somehow managed to do so anyways.

"Harry!" called Hermione, waving frantically. In her other hand she clutched her new cat, an orange beast called Crookshanks. The feline didn't look very happy at being held like that, but he was willing to put up with it for Hermione's sake. He too was a magical creature, a legacy from his kneazle father, and he could sense that his witch was touched by destiny.

"Harry!" the Ravenclaw cried again, just in case he hadn't heard her. "Come on!"

The Parselmouth grinned. "Looks like I'm needed. Thanks again for bringing me, Tonks."

"It was my pleasure, Harry."

The Slytherin waved at his Ravenclaw friend. She grinned, the smile spreading from ear to ear, as he walked towards her. Their other friends leaned out of the window- they had already claimed a compartment to themselves.

A few minutes later, the Hogwarts Express and those it carried within were gone.

* * *

><p>Fear the apocaplypse, Dudley. Fear it!<p>

Thanks to all of you who guessed about the riddle. It was fun seeing how horribly wrong you all are. : )

-Antares


	4. The Welcoming Feast

_The Great Council began in the autumn of the year and lasted until the summer solstice, when the Lady was once again able to speak without an interpreter. _

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh (The History of the Treaty)_, translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

Blaise grimaced. Under his breath, he muttered, "The old Sorting Hat is a much better singer."

Harry, who was sitting next to him, nodded. The Parselmouth's expression was equally pained. "Dumbledore obviously focused on the Legilimency aspects of the new hat, not its musicality."

The new Sorting Hat, an elegantly cut jet-black headpiece with a wide, stiff brim, bowed once to each of the four tables. "Thank you, thank you," it rasped. "So nice to receive such a lovely ovation on my debut…."

Blaise snorted. "Think we should tell it that we're applauding just because it's finished?"

"Of course not," Daphne chided.

"How much do you want to bet that Dumbledore ordered it to tell him everything it learns from the first years' minds?" Harry growled. His entire face was dark and angry. So was Daphne's- her sister Astoria would be Sorted tonight.

"I'm not taking that bet," Blaise replied. "We both know that the second the Welcoming Feast is over, that new hat will spill everything to its master."

They had to stop talking then, though, because Professor McGonagall was starting to call out names.

This was the biggest batch of first years Hogwarts had received in over fifteen years. Many of them had been conceived in the weeks following Voldemort's defeat. Even more disturbingly, a disproportionately large percent had names like 'Mark,' 'Lily,' or 'James.' No Harries, fortunately, but the names were still quite disturbing to the true Boy-Who-Lived. Even worse, no one had any doubt that next year's crop would be even larger.

"I'm hungry," Blaise whined as Zelda MacIntire was Sorted into Hufflepuff.

"Easy, Blaise," Daphne said dryly. "You're starting to sound like Ronald Weasley. Are you going to start eating like him too?"

He scowled but didn't answer.

"Don't worry, New Ron," Harry teased. "I'm hungry too."

Finally, the Sorting was over. Unfortunately for Blaise's protesting stomach (and many others' stomachs as well), it wasn't quite time to eat. Dumbledore still had to make his speech.

"First," the Headmaster announced, "I would like to commend our new Sorting Hat, who despite its youth and inexperience performed its task admirably." He clapped his hands together a few times. The students applauded unenthusiastically. They had no real feelings about the either of the headpieces. Most of them couldn't care less that the old Sorting Hat had supposedly been destroyed by Slytherin's monster. They didn't understand that this new headpiece had no compunctions about betraying the new students' secrets. It was loyal to Dumbledore, its creator, and Dumbledore alone.

Harry much preferred the old hat.

"Next, I would like to introduce Professor Alastor Moody, who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year."

The old man, battle-scarred and fierce, nodded.

_-curses flying- shouting- a Death Eater collapsing to the floor- forced retreat- hot shame and humiliation- an oath of revenge-_

Harry grit his teeth against the onslaught of memories. It had been months since his last lapse, but Moody was involved enough in Voldemort's past that his mere presence could force his recollections. Angry at himself, at Voldemort, at Moody, at the Sorting Hat- anyone and everyone involved with his cursed gift- the Slytherin rubbed at his scar. A scowl marred his features.

To think that he would have to take lessons from that man all year… well, he told himself, you'll get used to it eventually. You got used to the memories of Dumbledore popping up at the most inconvenient times, so you can do it again. And hopefully it'll be a faster process this time around- you're more experienced now.

The other students applauded politely. More than a few looked rather intimidated by the old man's revolving eye, peg leg, and assortment of scars.

Blaise used the clapping, meager though it was, as cover to ask Harry, "You sure you can handle this?"

"I'll be fine," Harry growled. He_ would_ be.

"If you insist," his friend sighed.

"Next," Dumbledore said, "I would like to introduce Professor Horace Slughorn, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House. Professor Severus Snape, his predecessor, had to step down last May due to health issues."

Harry snorted. "'Health issues'? What a lovely euphemism for getting one's arm ripped off by an acromantula."

"Probably doesn't want to scare the firsties," Blaise muttered. "Guess we'll have to scare them ourselves, eh, mates?"

His friend lowered his voice. "Or let the VV do that for us. That can be one of the first articles." He smiled coldly. "Let the parents see early on just what kind of school they've consigned their prides and joys to."

Dumbledore continued his speech. "I am also pleased to announce that Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys, has been promoted to Care of Magical Creatures professor. His predecessor, Professor Kettleburn, retired at the end of last year to spend more time with his remaining limbs. I have no doubt that Professor Hagrid is more than capable of filling Kettleburn's shoes."

The applause for this announcement was much more enthusiastic, especially at the Gryffindor table. Harry joined in, but his face was pale.

Daphne's eyes were wide with shock. "Don't get me wrong," she said faintly, "I really do like Hagrid, but…."

"He tried to raise an illegal fire-breathing dragon in a wooden house," Blaise finished. His voice was equally faint. "Oh, Merlin, I'm glad I didn't sign up for that."

"I did," Harry moaned. "And I like Hagrid too, Daphne, but now I fear for my life. Remember his pet Cerberus?"

"You mean the three-headed abomination against nature that thirsted for the blood of innocents and, rumor has it, is still running free in the Forbidden Forest?"

"Yes, Fluffy."

"Hopefully," muttered Daphne, "he won't be able to show anything truly deadly to third years. Besides, most of the truly dangerous creatures live outside of Britain."

"Dragons," Harry pointed out. "They're large, scary, magical reptiles that live in Britain."

The Greengrass girl caught both his messages. She grimaced- basilisks _were_ easy to breed, and even if they weren't, Hagrid could find a way if he put his mind to it. He'd already acquired a dragon egg (admittedly, Voldemort had done much of the work, yet Hagird had hatched it) and an entire colony of acromantulas. And that was just what they knew about.

"Look on the bright side," Blaise advised, clapping Harry on the back. "At least you'll get loads of combat experience against a wide assortment of horrendously dangerous creatures."

"…You're really not making me feel any better."

"Last but certainly not least," Dumbledore proclaimed, "I would like to announce that Quidditch is cancelled for the year."

"_WHAT?"_

All heads turned towards the source of the inhuman shriek. It had originated at the Gryffindor table- from Oliver Wood, captain of their Quidditch team, to be exact. This was his last year at Hogwarts, and despite having a phenomenal team, he had yet to win the Quidditch Cup. Now, hearing that his opportunity to do so had been taken away forever, the poor seventh year looked close to tears.

Dumbledore decided to continue. "Yes, it was a difficult decision to make, but we eventually decided that we couldn't organize two competitions at once. This year, Hogwarts will be hosting the first ever Tournament of Houses."

"The what?" Harry asked.

"Beats me," Blaise shrugged.

"He did say it was the first ever," Daphne pointed out.

They weren't the only ones trying to figure out what was going on. Murmurs had erupted all over the Great Hall.

Dumbledore waited for the speculation to die down before explaining, "The Tournament of Houses is based off the Tri-Wizard Tournament, a competition which used to take place between Hogwarts and our sister schools, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. However, instead of importing foreign competitors, all entrants shall be selected from Hogwarts's own students.

"As the name suggests, it _is_ a Tournament of _Houses_. Each House shall present seven students, one for each year. These students shall cooperate to complete five tasks. Four of these tasks are 'House-themed.' For instance, the Slytherin-themed challenge will require cunning and ambition. The Hufflepuff-themed task will test teamwork, loyalty, and determination. The fifth task shall take place at the end of the year, and it is designed to try the qualities of all the Houses."

Blaise and Daphne exchanged dark looks. Nothing like a heated competition to inflame old rivalries, shatter tentative bonds, or break fledgling trusts.

For the past two years, they and their friends had tried to reunite the other Houses with Slytherin. It was an uphill battle, but it had gotten significantly easier after Draco Malfoy was sent to Azkaban as an accessory to his father. Part of that was just the absence of a git, but part of it was because girls of all Houses had been kidnapped, and that had inevitably created a bond between them. This year, with both Snape and his godson gone, they had been hoping to increase the ante.

But with this new competition, they'd be stuck treading water or even sliding beneath the waves.

"Because we chose to model these games on the Tri-Wizard Tournament, we will be using the Goblet of Fire to choose our contestants." He waved his wand, and an ancient cup floated into the room. It flew through the air slowly, solemnly, before being deposited onto the stool normally used by students being Sorted. "Contestants may write their names on a slip of paper and drop it into the Goblet. It will select the competitors on the twenty-first of this month, the equinox, so you'll have more than enough time to decide whether or not to compete."

Daphne raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question to her friend. Blaise shrugged slightly, inclined his head towards Harry. The youngest Slytherin was staring at the Head Table, gaze intent.

The other Slytherin nodded. Yes, Harry would be the obvious choice to compete for their year. He was smart and fast and brave, and having Voldemort's memories wouldn't hurt his chances. But, Daphne tried to point out, as their leader, he would be the busiest of them all. Perhaps it would be better to have someone else compete, just to make sure that Harry didn't collapse of utter exhaustion.

Unfortunately, Blaise didn't get her message. The Greengrass girl sighed; they'd obviously have to discuss this aloud.

"Prizes for the tournament include seven hundred House points, fifty Galleons for every competitor on the winning team, the adoration of your peers, and eternal glory." He smiled. "So think carefully about whether or not you wish to join."

"Gee," Blaise grumbled, "money, adoration, glory, and points. I don't think that anyone will want to compete for such paltry motivation."

"One day," muttered Daphne, "you will learn that sarcasm doesn't solve all life's problems."

He waved a negligent hand. "No, Daphne, it's you who will learn that it does."

Murmurs had once again broken out around them. Students asked each other if they would put their name in the Goblet, if they honestly thought that they had a chance. Others were speculating as to whom the Goblet would choose and which team would win. Still others, confident that they would be selected, were loudly declaring their merits and planning their future strategies.

"Chop chop!" Dumbledore said, and clapped his hands. Food appeared on the tables. The students dug in.

"What do you think, Harry?" asked Blaise.

"I think," the other boy replied, "that this isn't all bad news."

That bizarre comment garnered two confused stares. "Care to explain?"

"Of course, Blaise." He nodded. A tiny smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Think about it for a second- if Dumbledore feels the need to actively discourage inter-House cooperation, what does that imply?"

Daphne understood. "That our plans were working well enough to worry him."

"Exactly!" Harry exulted. His smile widened. "And remember, you two, this is only for a year. The Quidditch junkies would never let this become an annual event- at least, not unless they start hosting this side by side with the Quidditch tournament. And even then the team captains wouldn't like it, because the Tournament of Houses would distract less die-hard fans. One year, you two. We just have to hold out for one year, redoubling or tripling our efforts, I admit, but it's only a few months. Besides," he added in a lower voice, "I'm sure that the VV help. There's no way that Dumbledore planned for _that._"

"True," Daphne acknowledged. "But which of us should enter?"

That they _would _enter wasn't even a question. That they _would_ win the right to participate was inevitable.

Harry considered. "Not me, I think," he said. "I suspect I'll be rather busy this year. Do either of you have any burning desire to win points, honor, glory, and riches?"

"I think we should both try out," Daphne proposed. "And may the best woman win." She smirked, took a sip of her pumpkin juice.

Blaise stuck out his tongue. "I believe the correct phrase is, 'May the best _man_ win.'"

"How about we go with, 'May the best _human being_ win'?" Harry suggested.

The other two Slytherins thought that over a few seconds before nodding. Smiling, they shook on it. "May the best human being win."

At the Ravenclaw table, a similar conversation was taking place. "You should compete, Hermione," Luna Lovegood informed her friend. The two witches, one dreamy and distant, the other down-to-earth and overly rational, made an odd pair. Not to mention the age difference between them- third years didn't usually hang around with second years. But Truth's Messenger, despite her practical exterior, knew full well that there were more things in heaven and on earth than were dreamt of in most philosophies, and so they were friends, though not as close as Hermione was to the rest of the prophesied five.

"I might just have to," the older girl murmured. She glanced at the Slytherin table. Harry, Daphne, and Blaise were deep in discussion; they were probably figuring out which of them should place his or her name in the Goblet. Even as she watched, Daphne and Blaise shook hands.

"It would certainly go a long way towards preserving inter-House unity amidst a competition which was obviously designed to sow discord," she continued.

Hermione choked on her drink. "What?"

Luna repeated herself. "I think I might join, too," she added. "I probably won't get in- I'm not a shoe-in like you- but Daddy says that it never hurts to try."

The other girl's eyes softened. "No, I wouldn't be surprised if you really were selected. You're stronger than you know, Luna."

For a moment, the second year's mask slipped. The sorrow of an abandoned, neglected child, a girl loathed by her peers, shone through. Then she resumed her Loony persona. "If you say so, Hermione. I wonder how the Goblet of Fire works?"

"You know, I have no idea. Perhaps we could do some kind of research project on it."

She smiled. It was a genuine smile, clear and focused, a smile from Lun_a_ instead of Loon_y_. "I would like that."

The Gryffindors, too, were immersed in discussion. The third years had already decided that Mark would be their champion. Even Neville, who knew that he had advantages which Mark lacked (i.e., his friendship with the others, his rapidly developing gift with Herbology, the training he'd received from Harry and Firenze), realized that he didn't stand a chance against the ersatz Boy-Who-Lived. If nothing else, Dumbledore would probably take all Mark's rivals from the Goblet, just to be safe.

Since everyone knew that the Chosen One, who had driven Lord Voldemort off not once but twice, who had chased a basilisk away from the school, would become Gryffindor's third year champion, their topic was how Mark would lead his House to victory.

Neville tuned his Housemates out. He looked over at the Slytherin table, where Harry was talking with Blaise and Daphne. He glanced towards Ravenclaw, saw Hermione and Luna chatting together.

Not for the first time, he wished that he had more friends within his own House. Or that he'd been Sorted into Ravenclaw with Hermione. Not Slytherin, because Slytherins scared him and he couldn't have handled Snape as his Head of House for two years. But Ravenclaw would have been nice- _they_ weren't all part of Mark's little clique.

Admittedly, he'd heard that some of them were bullies, but he could have handled that. Besides, Hermione would have helped him.

"Wonder who else is entering?" Ron asked. "You think your brother will, Mark?"

The false Chosen One scowled. "I wouldn't be surprised," he grumbled. "Or more likely, he'll have Greengrass or Zabini enter for him. They're his people through and through." He thought for a moment. "You know those Slytherins better than I do, Neville. Which of them do you think will enter?"

"Probably both," the other Gryffindor admitted. "I suspect that they'll let the Goblet choose. I also think that Daphne's little Astoria- she was just Sorted into Hufflepuff tonight- will enter for that House."

Mark waved a negligent hand. "I'm not worried about Hufflepuff," he snorted. "They're duffers, all of them. I'm worried about how much Slytherin will cheat."

"They won't," Neville assured him. "Harry won't let them."

Mark's face tightened. "What do you think the first task will be?" he asked loudly. "It'll probably be the easiest, if only because it's the Hufflepuff task."

Neville (who had almost been Sorted into that House. The hat had changed its mind at the last minute, but it had been a close call) bit back an offended retort. He knew that Mark wouldn't listen to him.

Mark never did.

* * *

><p>"Let's recap," Harry said. "Hermione, Blaise, and Daphne are all going to enter. Neville isn't because he doesn't think he can beat Mark- I disagree, by the way, about you not having the potential, but you're probably right about Dumbledore sabotaging the Goblet so his golden boy can win. But back on topic, Neville and I aren't competing."<p>

Hermione stroked the head of her new kneazle hybrid, an ugly orange beast named Crookshanks. "It's inevitable that Daphne or Blaise will win- your only competition is…." She grimaced. "And you're both from influential enough families, Daphne especially, to keep the rest of the team in line."

"It's equally inevitable that you'll win," Daphne pointed out. "The other Ravenclaws in our year have nothing resembling practical experience. You do."

The Ravenclaw blushed. "Thank you."

"So two of the twenty-eight competitors will be dedicated to actually, you know, keep the Houses from each others' throats." Blaise grimaced. "Think that'll be enough? Especially as we're only third years."

"Luna Lovegood is thinking about entering," Hermione commented. "If she gets in, I'm sure she'll help us."

"I suspect that Astoria will enter as well," Daphne noted. "But even if they are both selected and decide to support our goals, we'll still have only four out of twenty-eight."

"Better than two," Blaise pointed out.

"I know that, but six-sevenths of the competitors would still be against us." Daphne sighed heavily.

"So we need to recruit the others," Blaise declared. "And those of us who do win will have to be influential on our teams- the team leaders, if you will. They'll be more likely to listen to team leaders than random contestants off the street."

"Not to mention that we need to step up our other efforts," Harry agreed. "Quadruple them. Good thing we've had all summer to work, eh?"

"I haven't," Hermione reminded them.

"Well, most of us have." Harry smiled at her. "So, do we have a plan?"

The others nodded. "We have a plan."

* * *

><p>So. We have a plot, we have a strategy, we have Mad-eye Moody. Even better, I actually know what I'm doing this time! I've got an outline and all sorts of wonderful outliney things that help me plan and make good fanfiction. Huzzah!<p>

Next: werewolf politics.


	5. Alpha and Beta

_Though the werewolves attended the conference and indeed signed the Treaty of the Wood, they no longer remember their predecessors' promise. Perhaps, if and when Lady Saysa's Speaker comes, they will remember, but until then, they will doubtless continue to ignore the promise._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_The History of the Treaty_), translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

Tyr Ulfhednar stared east, across the sea. He stood on the eastern shore of Founder's Isle but was scarcely aware of his surroundings. That was why Sirius was able to sneak up on him without the normally alert alpha noticing.

"What're you looking at?" the Animagus inquired.

To Tyr's credit, he didn't jump. Instead he answered, "Not Britain. I'm looking past that, to mainland Europe. To Asia, even, but Europe first. Europe has more werewolves than any other continent on Earth."

Sirius waited.

"We've freed Britain," the alpha continued. "Pallas saved France on her vacation- sounds like the ultimate working vacation to me. But the rest of the world: the Baltics, the Balkans, Scandinavia, the Russian steppes, and the river valleys of India, everywhere! Their werewolves are still sick. Still enslaved to themselves." His brow furrowed. "Someone needs to save them."

"You?" asked Sirius, surprised. Tyr hadn't been back _that_ long, after all, and he was the Alpha of Britain. He had duties in the isles that he couldn't fulfill if he were gallivanting around the Continent.

Tyr shrugged. "Why not me? I'm already a wanted fugitive. I have connections overseas, if only in Livonia. And I know some of the other alphas, if only be reputation. They'd know me as well."

Padfoot nodded. "That makes sense, I guess. But what about your pack?"

"That's where you come in," the werewolf explained. "Sirius, would you mind lending those old mirrors you and James Potter used to speak with in different detentions?"

The Animagus's face lit up. "Yeah, I think so. They'd be somewhere in Grimmauld Place, probably in my old room." He grinned sheepishly. "When I left, I kind of abandoned a lot of my stuff, including my mirror. And I think that Remus took James's old mirror after… after things went wrong." He scowled. "One day, I _will_ find that traitor."

"I know you will," Tyr assured him. "But, as it's almost seven in the evening, I doubt that day will be today."

Padfoot barked a laugh. "Good point," he acknowledged. "Was that your way of hinting that I should call Kreacher and ask him to look for the mirror?" He frowned. "And speaking of Kreacher, d'you think he'd be able to hunt down Pettigrew? I wouldn't put it past him. Rats and men with a finger missing aren't that common."

"It can't hurt," Tyr decided. "And maybe the other elves could help- I think they're getting bored, with so many of them taking care of so few of us. The Sorting Hat isn't exactly high-maintenance."

"Actually," Sirius admitted, "I think that they've been cleaning the werewolves' homes behind our backs. They know quite a bit about the CC, and Remus mentioned that his house had been abnormally clean lately…."

The werewolf chuckled.

"But it's a good idea," the Animagus finished. "Kreacher!"

The house-elf materialized with a tiny popping noise. "Yes, Master?" he croaked. "How can Kreacher serve Master?"

As always, the sight of his deranged old elf actually willing to _help_ him made Sirius question the natural of the universe. He shook the uncanny sensation off and said, "There's an enchanted mirror in my old room back at Grimmauld."

"Kreacher will fetch it for master."

"I hate the fetch jokes," Sirius muttered as his servant popped away. Half a second later, the elf returned with a round mirror in his hands. He gave it to Sirius.

"Thanks," the wizard said. Then he got back down to business. "You remember Peter Pettigrew, right? I brought him and my other friends over during summer break a couple times."

"Kreacher remembers Master's filthy half-blood rat-friend. Kreacher and Kreacher's Mistress never liked the rat-friend."

Sirius grimaced at the mention of 'filthy half-bloods' but let it slide. His servant had gotten a thousand times better since Pallas, who had fulfilled Regulus's dying wish by helping Kreacher destroy the locket Horcrux, let slip that she was Muggle-born. Still, old habits die hard, and Sirius was hardly going to chide Kreacher for insulting someone he himself loathed.

"If I asked you to find him, could you?"

Kreacher actually looked hurt. "Kreacher understands Master's distrust, for Kreacher failed in Master Regulus's final task for many long years, but Master must remember that with the help of Madame Dhar, Kreacher did succeed! And Kreacher is diligent; he will not give up the search. Does Master want Kreacher to hunt down the disgusting treacherous rat?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice."

The house-elf's smile became downright sadistic. "Kreacher shall enjoy wreaking vengeance on the abominable scum-beast who consigned Kreacher's Master to years in nasty prison. Yes, Kreacher shall enjoy this very, very much." He was actually rubbing his hands together in unholy glee. "With Master's leave, Kreacher will now begin the hunt."

Sirius nodded faintly. "Go for it."

Kreacher vanished.

Sirius turned to Tyr, his expression frozen in shocked horror. "Dear Merlin, what evil did I unleash upon the unsuspecting world?"

"Not the world," the werewolf reminded him. "Just Pettigrew."

Sirius relaxed. "Oh. That's all right, then." He assumed an expression uncomfortably similar to Kreacher's happy face. "Wonder how long that will take?"

"I have no idea," Tyr admitted. "I don't know much about house-elves or their hunting skills."

Padfoot frowned, considered. "I've heard that they have a great information network. Purebloods don't often pay much attention to their servants, so house-elves get to learn all sorts of embarrassing things about their masters. If Pettigrew is hiding out with some random family of Death Eaters, their elf will know. And I have no doubt that Kreacher will find some way of getting the information out of them." He blanched. "Oh, Merlin, I really _did_ create a monster."

Tyr grinned, uncharacteristically amused. "Well, at least he's on our side."

* * *

><p>"You're definitely leaving, then?" Harry kept his voice carefully neutral. He knew that his initial reaction to Tyr's imminent departure and his sorrow at the thought was childish and impractical. The werewolf had already delayed far too long. As he said, the lycanthropes outside of Britain and France still had to be cured.<p>

"Definitely," Tyr confirmed.

Harry nodded. "Do you want to take the Sorcerer's Stone? You'll need more money than we will; we'll just be in school or at work."

The alpha considered. Then he nodded. "I don't like having two highly magical artifacts on my person, but that's probably a good idea."

"Just be careful," the younger wizard advised. "It wouldn't do to lose you." He smiled ruefully. "It wouldn't do to lose anyone. Or the artifacts, I suppose." He forced his face and voice into their usual businesslike modes. "I'm assuming you called Remus here because you want him to be alpha when you're gone?"

Remus, who had been sitting quietly in the corner as Tyr explained his plans, started. "What?"

"You assumed right," Tyr replied. "He's been a good beta this summer, spreading the word among our kind without alerting the Aurors. Except Tonks, of course, and no one predicted that she'd try and help us on the full moon."

"You want me to be alpha?" the other werewolf exclaimed. "You want _me_ to lead the pack while you're gone?"

"Who else?" The elder demanded. "Who is trusted by both the Aurors and our people? Who else knows how to contact Harry here in the blink of an eye? Who knows me better than you? Who invented and initiated all those combat maneuvers?"

"Well, yes," the other admitted, "but there have been others who have contributed just as much, if not more. Take Cynthia-"

"Too hard-headed."

"Or Giles-"

"Too impulsive, not respected enough."

"Guadalupe-"

"Never heard of her."

"Sirius, even."

"Do you really think that the others will willingly follow a non-werewolf?"

Remus grimaced. "Well, no," he confessed. "But me?"

Tyr nodded firmly. "I trust you, Remus. You're not bloodthirsty or bent on revenge, but you know how to fight and how to strategize. Outsiders trust you; well, the ones who have met you trust you. The idiots who read that article from eighteen months back don't. You have connections with the Aurors and the Isle, and you'll be connected to me as well." He reached into his pack, pulled out a very familiar magical object.

Moony stared. "Sirius's old mirror," he breathed. A smile crossed his face. "I remember this…."

"I have the other," Tyr explained. "According to Sirius, these things will work even if half the globe separates them. If some kind of emergency comes up, just call. Of course, that doesn't mean I'm giving you leave to contact me whenever something goes wrong, just emergencies. You're more than capable of handling most events on your own."

Remus shook his head, but his heart wasn't in the denial. Instead, he said, "Thank you, Tyr. This is an honor."

The elder werewolf shrugged. "It's not an honor when you've earned it, Remus."

The other lycanthrope grinned. As always, joy brought youth to his careworn features, made him look his actual age. "I don't know about that, Tyr. But…." He took the mirror. "I'll do my best."

Tyr smiled back. "We all will."

* * *

><p>Late that night, the free werewolves of Britain as opposed to the few who still followed Fenrir Greyback, Portkeyed onto Founder's Isle. Their alpha had commanded them to come and so they obeyed.<p>

Only three non-lycanthropes were present: Pollux Ophion Riddle, the Moon Lord who had freed them; Saysa of the Chamber, the Guardian; and Nymphadora Tonks, the only Auror (technically still an Auror-trainee) who had ever heard of the Chalice of the Moon.

Unfortunately for Tonks, not all the werewolves were overly thrilled with her knowledge. They didn't trust her; didn't trust any human except the prophesied five. They especially didn't trust Aurors, even Auror-trainees.

She tried to make small talk with a couple women about her own age, but their answers were aloof and icy. But Tonks was nothing if not persistent, so she launched into a story involving her Metamorphmagus abilities and April Fools' Day.

By the time Tyr began his speech, the two young werewolves were smiling. Not widely, but still smiling. Tonks counted that as a victory.

"We are free," Tyr announced. "We have escaped lycanthropy's curse…. But our brothers and sisters have not. In Europe, in the Americas, in Australia, in Africa, in Asia, the other werewolves are bound to the cycle of the moon. Each month, they are forced to fight the tortured beast within their own souls."

Tonks shivered. She had never experienced the werewolf transformation (not being a werewolf did that to you), but from Remus's descriptions, it was absolutely awful. She didn't want to think about what it would be like to go through that month after month after month.

Tyr changed the subject, or at least, he seemed to. "I'm a convicted criminal. I can't walk through Magical Britain without someone potentially noticing my identity and turning me in. But overseas… overseas, I'm nobody."

The werewolves began to murmur among themselves. They didn't like where this was going.

"It shouldn't take too long for me to track down the rest of our people," Tyr continued. "Ministries all over the world have packed us into concentration camps. They did so for their own benefit, but we can, we will, use them for ours. Their own prejudice will contribute to the worldwide cure."

His gaze hardened. "Don't try to talk me out of this. You all know that I am the best choice.

"But I will _not_ be leaving you leaderless. Sirius Black generously donated a pair of magical communication mirrors. I will take one with me on my journey. Remus Lupin, my beta and regent, will carry the other."

Tonks (and indeed almost everyone on the Isle) looked over at Remus. The lycanthrope seemed rather embarrassed by the attention, but he held himself high. Tonks smiled. Tyr had chosen well.

Except that not everyone thought so. A middle-aged werewolf a few feet in front of Tonks moaned, "Lupin's the boss now? Merlin help us, everyone knows he's the Aurors' pet."

"Just look at that Auror girlfriend of his," the lycanthrope's companion growled.

'That Auror girlfriend of his' bit back an angry retort. First off, she wanted to say, get your facts straight! We're not dating. Not that I haven't tried….

Six weeks or so ago, Tonks had oh-so-casually commented that Remus really should join her for dinner sometime. The werewolf had gone stiff as a board. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Dora," he had whispered.

Tonks's heart had nearly frozen over. "Why not?" she demanded.

"Because… some people… would think of it as a date. And those people… they're the ones in charge of your career, and they'd never let you date a werewolf."

"But you're cured," she pointed out.

"They don't know that."

The Auror's face had gone hard. "I know that they don't. And I know that I don't care, I'd ask you even if Pollux hadn't found the cure. I'd still l-"

Remus had flinched. "Even though I am cured," he'd said, "I'm still old and poor and broken. I'd ruin your career, your youth, your family, your life. Your co-workers already resent our friendship. If we were to… go out for dinner, even as friends, they would take it the wrong way. Then you'd never graduate."

"I don't know if I want to be an Auror anymore," she had confessed. "Not if it means enslaving people like you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Even if it means protecting people from those like Greyback?"

Tonks looked away. Being an Auror was her childhood dream, the goal of her life. Despite what she had said, she still wanted to be one, if only to reform the system from within. Merlin knew the system needed reform. But she also wanted Remus, and she had no idea how to accomplish both those goals.

"I'm a Metamorphmagus, you know," she told him. One last try, "I can look like anyone." Her hair cycled through blond to brown to black to red before returning to its usual pink.

"I think, Dora," he had sighed, "that they'd still know. And then they'd punish you for it. You know they would."

She was one year through Auror training. She had two years to go. Then, once she had graduated and people could no longer hold that threat over her head, she would go to Remus again. Well, okay, she'd probably try again sooner, two years was a long time, but she'd definitely go to him the second the 'trainee' dropped from her job title.

Hopefully by then Remus would have come to his senses. But Tonks wouldn't bet the farm on that; he _was _Remus, after all.

But enough flashbacking, here and now, in the present, a pair of bitter and probably jealous lycanthropes was slandering their new alpha.

Tonks cleared her throat. The werewolves glanced toward the source of the noise. The smaller had the decency to blush. The larger raised a belligerent eyebrow and asked, "Yes?"

"Remus and I aren't dating," she informed him bluntly. "Just so you know."

The larger werewolf snorted. "Really. You seem very buddy-buddy for two single people who aren't dating."

Tonks sniffed. "Just because you are incapable of befriending a female without wanting her to be something more doesn't mean that Remus suffers the same deficiencies."

At the front of the crowd, Tyr decided that he'd let people debate and mutter long enough. "I have every faith in Remus," he growled, fixing everyone he'd heard suggest otherwise with a baleful gray gaze. "Yes, he has connections to the Aurors, but he is more than loyal enough to use those connections for _our_ benefit. How many of you can say the same?"

No one dared answer what was obviously a challenge. They had no intention of questioning Tyr's leadership, Remus's perhaps, but never Tyr's.

The alpha nodded. "Remus has already proven himself as my beta. You all acknowledge that he has invented several useful training maneuvers, and he's good at handling day-to-day affairs. He's beyond capable of handling the job of alpha for the next few months, and even if something does happen that's beyond his ability to handle, and I doubt it will, he has an easy way to contact me. Of course," he smiled coldly, "if you feel you could do better, feel free to let me know. I don't leave until the morning."

The werewolves looked around the crowd, wanting to see if anyone would step forward. A couple people shifted, including the large lycanthrope who had argued with Tonks, but no one moved.

Tyr smiled at them. "I thought not."

* * *

><p>The next day during the werewolves' meager lunch break, Giles Hunter stalked up to Remus Lupin. The younger, smaller (not many of their people were larger than Giles) lycanthrope fought back a groan.<p>

Still, he was a polite man by nature, so instead of heading for the hills, he asked, "May I help you?"

"Your Auror-trainee is a leak waiting to happen." Giles was blunt as always.

"Dora isn't going to betray us," Remus sighed. "Tyr knows it, I know it, and anyone who bothers to talk with her knows it. She's actually gotten into a bit of trouble with some full-fledged Aurors for being too sympathetic to werewolves. She's not a leak."

Giles shook his head. "Maybe not yet," he grudgingly admitted, "but if it comes to a choice between her people and ours, I know which side she'll choose."

Remus bristled at the implications.

"The only kind of person we can really trust is a werewolf."

The gauntlet was thrown, the lines drawn in the sand. Remus's hackles rose. "No," he growled. "Absolutely not."

"It's the only way to guarantee-"

Remus drew himself to his full height. "You trust Pollux, don't you?" he snapped. "Him and the others. They're not werewolves. Neither is Saysa. And they're all Animagi, now, so they can't become werewolves. If you trust them and Sirius, then why shouldn't you trust Dora?"

"Because they were the ones who actually went out and found and stole the Chalice. They've proven themselves, Lupin, and your girlfriend has _not_."

"Firstly, she isn't my girlfriend. Second, doesn't she prove herself each and every day that she keeps silent?"

Giles avoided the question. "It's not going to last. The only way we can trust her for certain is-"

"_No._"

Something in Remus's voice made Giles's inner wolf flop onto its back. This wasn't the voice of someone willing to put up with useless paranoia. This was the voice of the man to whom their alpha had entrusted his pack.

"Change Dora," the Beta of Britain growled, "and you'll be no better than Greyback. Are you?"

"We're all better than Fenrir," Giles mumbled, gazing down to his feet. His inner wolf wanted to whine for forgiveness, but he suppressed the urge.

"Then Dora will stay human," Remus proclaimed flatly. "Fully human. Just like Pollux, Pallas, Alexander, Bianca, and Apollo. And if she does _not_ remain fully human, I'll know exactly who to blame. Do you understand me?"

"I understand." The admission was given grudgingly, angrily, reluctantly, but it was still given.

"Good."

One of the Aurors who oversaw the werewolves' labor (supposedly these Aurors guarded against a werewolf revolt, but in reality they merely made sure that international trade continued by forcing werewolves to work as dock men) decided that his charges had taken too long to eat. "Back to work, dogs!" he barked.

The lycanthropes went back to work. Their labor was easier now, as the Chalice had increased their strength even as it had heightened their senses and stamina. Yet they worked sluggishly, not wanting the Aurors to catch on. Besides, they had to save strength for their training that night.

They had vowed to become Pollux's army, and every army needed to be ready for battle.

By unspoken consent, Remus and Giles walked to the opposite sides of the tiny port. They didn't speak again or even lay eyes on each other for the rest of the day. But they both knew that their avoidance couldn't last forever. Their debate wasn't over yet.

* * *

><p>"That article" is a reference to the old rumors that Remus is corrupting the Boy-Who-Lived's brother to do... um... evil werewolf things. What those evil werewolf things are, not even the article knows.<p>

So yeah. Politics.

Next up: filler space, and the names for the Tournament.

The rest of this AN has nothing to do with my fanfiction or even HP. It's basically just a recommendation for an amazing fantasy series called _The Death Gate Cycle._ It's by Weis and Hickman, the _Dragonlance _people, and it literally has everything. Secret identities (books 1-7), dragons (1-7), plots (1-7), shattered stereotypes (1-7), zombies (3, 6-7), a manifestation of the ultimate evil in the universe (4-7)... I'd continue, but then the list would take up more text than my actual fic. Just trust me when I say that it is awesome. First book is called _Dragon Wing._ Read away, dear friends!

-Antares


	6. Rising Stars

_Because unity cannot be brought about by constant battle, the first point of the Treaty of the Wood was that all its members would be at peace with each other. _

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_The History of the Treaty_), translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

Harry quickly came to the conclusion that Alastor Moody was utterly mental. Despite that, though, he was easily the best defense professor they'd ever had.

He spent the first class of the term going over a syllabus of sorts. Since their defensive education had been 'flubbed by a coward and a brainless fraud,' he would spend the first month catching them up to where they should be (in other words, where Moody himself had been as a third year). "Then the hard part will start," he informed his stunned class, cracking his knuckles. "Curses, countercurses, how to survive; and above all, constant vigilance!"

"I kind of like him," Harry informed his friends as they left the class. "He reminds me a bit of a demented Firenze. Learning through experience and hard work, and that."

"Harry, he's going to be having us duel each other."

"Exactly." The boy nodded cheerily. In a lower voice, he added, "That's how he trained, you know. My source. He would find enemies and take them down." He grimaced. "Though I suspect we'll be leaving our fallen opponents alive for class."

"One would hope so, yes," Blaise muttered.

"Say what you will about Harry's source," Daphne sighed, "but he _is_ a talented duelist."

Blaise nodded. "I acknowledge that," he said. "I'd be stupid not to acknowledge that. What I'm annoyed about is that we'll probably end up partnered to Crabbe and Goyle so they can catch up. Moody seems like the type to pair the stupidest with the smartest, and we are the smartest."

"Humble, isn't he?"

"He is indeed," Harry agreed. "But he's probably right. We do have the advantage of more training."

"In other words," Blaise decreed, "it's _your_ fault that we'll have to train Crabbe and Goyle."

Their conversation quickly degenerated into a squabble about whether or not they would have to train the aforementioned imbeciles, and, if they did have to, if it would be Harry's fault. Daphne remained neutral, as was her wont, so they couldn't agree on whether or not Harry was responsible for their impending tutoring mishaps.

Professor Slughorn was just as interesting as Moody, though in a slightly more sane fashion. He began the class with a demonstration of the potions they should be able to brew by the end of the year. At the end of the class, he asked Harry, Daphne, and Blaise to stay behind for a while.

"Told you we'd all be in his Slug Club," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Of course _I _am," Blaise chuckled. "It's you I'm confused about. He probably wants you to be the servant."

The Parselmouth snorted.

Slughorn beamed at his three pupils. "A pleasure to meet you three. I've heard good things about all of you." His tiny eyes fixated on Daphne. "Miss Greengrass. I hear you're an excellent addition to your family, even with your new brother."

The girl's eye tried to twitch. Only supreme self-control kept it still.

"How is the little tyke doing, if you don't mind my asking? I taught both your parents, you see, and I know how much they wanted a little boy."

"Ascanius is perfectly all right, Professor," Daphne replied. "He's quite healthy, particularly his lungs."

Slughorn laughed. "Yes, I think that all babies have healthy lungs. And what of you, Mr. Zabini?"

"My lungs are healthy too, sir."

The professor chuckled again. "Glad as I am about your health, that's not quite what I meant. How are your mother and stepfather doing? I knew Anath in school as well, though not Endymion."

"They're doing just fine, sir." Meaning that his mother hadn't killed poor Endymion yet. This stepfather was easily Blaise's favorite of the lot, and he didn't want the older wizard to die. Unfortunately, though he'd tried to warn the man about Anath's homicidal habits, Endymion hadn't believed him. He was too enamored of his lovely new wife to think anything bad about her.

And if Blaise had anything to say about it, Endymion would stay fine for a good long time. He didn't know what kind of love potion his mother was using on her latest husband, but surely there had to be some kind of panacea that would help him. If not, he would just have to figure out which potion was responsible for Endymion's adoration and find its antidote.

His task was easy compared to Harry's goals. Surely, even without the benefit of Voldemort's memories, he was smart enough to save a single wizard? He had to, or he wouldn't be worthy of the title Smoking Mirror.

But Blaise let none of these thoughts show as he spoke with Slughorn. He'd heard about the new potions master to realize that the man would dance around the subject of Anath's 'mysteriously' short-lived marriages.

They chatted lightly for a couple minutes more before Horace turned his greedy gaze onto Harry. The youngest Slytherin had been waiting silently, observing everything with sharp green eyes. The potions master smiled. "And here we have Harry Potter. A rising star, or so I've heard."

Harry shrugged. "If you say so, Professor."

"Come now, Harry. Don't be so modest. Are you or are you not the brightest young man of your year? Not to mention what you've done for Slytherin House's reputation."

Slughorn didn't know Harry well enough to see the effect his approving words had on the boy. Blaise and Daphne, though, couldn't help but notice that his ears pricked up, his shoulders straightened, and he became much more alert. Before, he had been bored, biding his time until this was over. Now he had found a potential ally, and he wasn't about to let this opportunity go to waste.

"All I'm trying to do," he explained, "is return our House's reputation to where it should be." He sighed, uncharacteristically weary. "It's an uphill battle, really, but it'll hopefully be better this year. Snape and Malfoy were the leaders of the 'Slytherin is home to future Dark Wizards' campaign."

"Yes," Slughorn agreed. "I remember Severus as a student. Excellent at potions, a true prodigy, but not… not a people person."

His male students laughed. Even Daphne had to smile.

"You have a gift for understatement," Harry teased.

Horace had the odd feeling that he'd known this boy for years- which was impossible, of course. It was probably just the resemblance to James. Not to mention Lily's brilliant green eyes.

Or perhaps not, he reflected as their conversation continued. Harry was probing him carefully, trying to figure out his ideas about Slytherin House without actually acting. A part of Horace wondered if Harry _wanted_ the professor to know what he was doing. He dismissed the thought quickly- Harry was good, but not that good.

And oh, was he good. Slughorn had always prided himself on the ability to spot potential, and this young man had more potential than anyone he'd ever met- more than his famous twin, even! Mark Potter was already famous; he had reached his peak, and it would be difficult to ascend from there. Harry, though… yes, he was indeed a rising star.

And who better to train this rising star than his new Head of House? That would of course involve helping the boy clean up Slytherin's reputation. Yes, he could imagine it now: he would guide Harry, show him the ropes. The boy would become a leader, in Hogwarts and after graduation: a leader who owed his success to Horace Slughorn.

Harry smirked as he and the others walked out of the classroom. "Mission accomplished."

* * *

><p>The quintet had long ago recognized that teachers and headmasters weren't the only influential people in Hogwarts. In all honesty, they couldn't help but notice- they were students themselves, and they were certainly influential. Not to mention Mark.<p>

They also knew that many of these influential students were on Quidditch teams. Though they would probably enter into the Tournament, they were also disappointed by the lack of official Quidditch games.

Harry and his friends approached the team captains. They were blunt: "Just because the Heads of House aren't organizing an official game plan doesn't mean we can't still have Quidditch," Blaise told Cedric Diggory, the captain of Hufflepuff's team.

Cedric's eyes lit up. He was smart enough to see the implications immediately. "You're right. I could get the team together. They'd be thrilled. I'm guessing that Slytherin is organizing too?"

"Hopefully," Blaise admitted, "but are you sure you want to use House teams?"

The Hufflepuff frowned. "Well, yes? What else would I use?"

"Since there's not going to be a Quidditch Cup this year," Blaise said innocently, "why not mix things up a bit? Especially since this year is all about inter-House unity and such. We were thinking that if enough people were interested, we could have eight teams. Each would have players from every House, or at least players from most of them."

Cedric's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Blaise answered. "Because like I said, this year is about inter-House unity. What better way to foster inter-House unity than by playing Quidditch together?"

"I don't know," the Hufflepuff replied dryly. "Maybe having us all compete against each other? After all, that's never gone wrong before."

The Slytherin blinked, surprised. "In all honesty, we didn't think that anyone else noticed that."

"Of course I noticed," Cedric sighed. "Mum and Dad taught me to take things with a grain of salt. I don't suppose that you know _why,_ though? Because I can't think of any reason for anyone to promote hate between the Houses."

"Ever heard of divide and conquer?"

A nod. "Of course. But who wants to conquer?"

Blaise hesitated. He didn't know if he could trust this wizard; he didn't know if Cedric trusted Dumbledore. So he settled with a lie. "Someone on the Board of Governors, perhaps? Lucius Malfoy was on the board until last year, and he was definitely interested in conquering. It's quite likely that someone like him is still at least partially in charge of our education."

Cedric blanched. "If this guy is anything like Malfoy, then I really don't want him to win. I'll ask around, see if there are any people interested in a mixed-House team."

"Eight mixed-House teams," Blaise reminded him.

"Eight," Cedric agreed. Then his eyes narrowed. "Has Harry Potter figured out which team he's going to play on? Because if he hasn't, I'd like to talk with him."

Blaise laughed.

The mixed-House teams proved incredibly popular (more out of love for Quidditch than for hopes for inter-House unity). By the time the equinox rolled around, the informal Quidditch league had its schedule all planned out.

The tournament was based on a win/lose system: if a team lost a game, they would be excluded from the rest of the competition. Games would take place on the first Saturday of every month. The final game was scheduled for early April.

Harry had actually been surprised by his idea's popularity. He knew that Quidditch was well-loved, but who would have thought that it could make students set aside House rivalries like this?

Of course, the rule stating that 'To honor this year's theme of inter-House cooperation, each team MUST have at least one member from every House' probably had something to do with that. If the students had been left to their own devices, they would doubtless have selected players from their own House instead of other, potentially more talented players from other dormitories. But since the rule was the rule was the rule, they were happy to go for the best.

Harry had, much to his own surprise, been talked into participating. It had taken Cedric Diggory over an hour of fast talking, but he had eventually joined the Hufflepuff's team. After all, since he was the source of the idea, he was kind of obligated to join, wasn't he? And it wasn't like Quidditch would take up as much time as it normally did- due to the fact that some players would have to be in Quidditch and in their House's team for the Tournament, they couldn't afford to use too much time. Practice would only occur once a week.

It was when he was discussing Quidditch with his friends, laughing about the irony of him joining up in the one year there wasn't any official sporting, that Hermione brought up something that had been troubling her for quite some time. "You know I don't like heights, right, Harry?" she asked.

"How could I not?" he teased.

Hermione wasn't in a teasing mood. "You also know that my Animagus form is a bird. I would… I know that you're busy, but would you mind giving me flying lessons? I'd like to overcome my fear before actually flying of my own power. What if I froze up and couldn't move my wings?" She shuddered.

"…That _would_ be bad. Maybe I could spend an hour with you before my team's practice?"

"That would be wonderful," she replied fervently.

Blaise made a kissy face. "Ah," he crooned, "you're so cute together, with your little broomsticks and romantic flights. Are you blushing, Harry? Because I think you're blushing."

"I think you're delusional," the other Slytherin sniffed, sticking his nose in the air. The action was partly out of faux snobbery but partly to hide his reddened cheeks.

"Guys, it's about time for dinner," Neville announced. "We need to get to the Great Hall now. Or didn't you want to hear who's going to be the champions?"

"Good point," Harry acknowledged.

"You're just glad that he changed the subject before I tricked you into revealing your secret love for Hermione."

"Once again: Delusional."

Harry and Blaise bantered back and forth about Hermione, Quidditch, and broomsticks as they and their friends approached the hall. Neville and the girls listened quietly, occasionally grinning at a particularly clever sally but not really contributing to the conversation. Then, just as they were about to enter the hall, Neville blurted, "Can I have those lessons too, Harry? I'm not good in the skies either, and I think that would be a good skill to have. Besides," he grinned devilishly, an expression that made him look rather like Blaise, "_someone _needs to chaperone you two lovebirds."

The Smoking Mirror roared with laughter. Several students, who were already seated at their House tables, glanced up from their meals to stare at him.

"Ah, Neville, Neville," he chortled, patting the younger boy on the back, "you really must let that sense of humor loose more often. Wit such as you have should not be wasted."

"I'm better this year," the Gryffindor pointed out. He spoke truly: without Snape's malignant influence, his grades in Potions had skyrocketed. The confidence boost he'd gained from deciphering the secret of the Chalice of the Moon hadn't hurt, either.

"That you are," Blaise acknowledged. "The little acorn is sprouting into the mighty oak." He wiped a pretend tear from his eye. "They grow up so fast…."

"We have to sit down now," Hermione pointed out. "I'd personally like to finish supper before the ceremony."

But despite her words, she was almost unable to eat. In just a few minutes, she and the others would discover who had been chosen to compete in the Tournament of Houses. Hermione knew intellectually that she was probably the top choice for her year and House, but the esteem issues she'd long harbored reared up like angry ghosts. Sure, she had been trained in magic by a young man with Voldemort's memories and skills. Sure, she was friends with a basilisk and (to a lesser extent) a group of dragons. But deep down, she was still Plain Hermione Jane Granger, the bookworm despised by her peers.

"Don't be silly," Luna instructed, patting her friend on the back. "Unless the Goblet of Fire has been completely corrupted by Hungarian woopahs, you'll be Ravenclaw's official champion in just four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Oh, wait. Twenty-two. Twenty-one…."

"I get the idea," Hermione chuckled. The butterflies in her stomach slowed their frantic flapping. "What are Hungarian woopahs?"

"They're spirits of confusion that linger by doors. You know they've been at you when you walk into another room and completely forget why. But I don't think they can affect powerful magical artifacts like the Goblet of Fire. Not unless they've completely gorged themselves on exam nerves, of course." She touched her chin. "Hm. I wonder if they can do that?"

"I don't know." Hermione told herself that maybe- not likely, but still- just _maybe_ these woopah things were real. It was hard to avoid her knee-jerk rationalism, but Saysa and Hogwarts had taught her that anything was possible.

Besides, Luna had faced more than enough mockery already. As the second year's friend, she could hardly add to the contempt.

Had they had more time before the ceremony, Hermione would still have changed the subject, just as she always did whenever Luna started babbling on about mystical animals. Fortunately, that was when Albus Dumbledore came to her rescue.

"Ooh, look!" Luna exclaimed, twisting in her seat. "They're bringing it in!"

Hermione craned her neck. Sure enough, Dumbledore marched into the Great Hall, Goblet in hand. The headmaster's phoenix, itself a creature of fire, perched on his shoulder.

"Fawkes looks sad, don't you think?" Luna observed.

Hermione didn't hear. She was too busy staring at the beautiful red bird.

Fawkes spent most of his time in Dumbledore's office, where the headmaster could keep an eye on him (ostensibly, the reason was so that he wouldn't be disturbed by gawkers). Luna was right, the phoenix did seem rather melancholy. Perhaps he too grieved the division this tournament would inevitably cause. Or maybe he felt the burden of Dumbledore's compulsion more strongly than usual.

The headmaster smiled, his benign grandfather persona in full swing. "Some of my more talkative colleagues believe that I should make a speech," he began, "but I'm certain that you are all much more eager to learn the identities of your champions. So, without further ado, the Goblet of Fire."

Applause echoed around the hall. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it died down. Students waited in breathless silence for the artifact's decision.

"For Slytherin House…."

A plume of fire burst from the Goblet's interior. Like a solar flare, it stretched up, twisting into fantastic shapes. Unperturbed by the great heat, Dumbledore reached into the fire, extracting a charred scrap of parchment. But the Goblet's flames did not die down. Quick and nimble, Dumbledore plucked six more names from the inferno before it retreated into the depths of the cup.

"Adelbert Bulstrode, Philip Harper, Daphne Greengrass, Lisette Flint, Adrian Pucey, Celestine Montague, and Emrys Srijata!"

The table erupted in cheers. Harry and Blaise clapped their friend on the back, laughing their congratulations. Hermione waved from the Ravenclaw table, beaming. Daphne, for her part, accepted the praise without her characteristic stoicism. She was grinning ear to ear.

"For Hufflepuff House…."

The three friends shushed their classmates, who would otherwise have continued on. No need to be rude to the badgers.

"Astoria Greengrass, Zacharias Smith, Susan Bones, Lucas Summers, Nadia Perkins, Cedric Diggory, and Anthony Crane!"

The badgers' joy put the Slytherins' celebrations to shame. It was, after all, the House of loyalty.

"Good for Cedric," Hermione murmured.

Luna nodded. "I like Cedric," she said. "He's nice to me. I just hope this doesn't conflict with his Quidditch practice."

Hermione blinked, surprised by how sensible the statement was. "It probably won't. He'll be careful to schedule around the Tournament."

"For Ravenclaw House…."

The Hufflepuffs needed no prompting to fall silent. They leaned forward in their seats, almost as eager as the eagles.

"Samuel Bell, Luna Lovegood, Hermione Granger, Cho Chang, Sadie Fawcett, John Davies, and Penelope Clearwater!"

Luna's jaw was slack with disbelief. Hermione grabbed her in a tight hug. "I knew you could do it!" she exclaimed.

"I… can't believe I got in." Luna shut her mouth. Her lips began to twitch. "I can't believe it! Oh, Hermione, wait till I tell Daddy!"

"And last but not least, for Gryffindor House…."

Dead silence. More than a few eyes fixed on the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Romilda Vane, Colin Creevey, Mark Potter-"

Here Dumbledore found himself incapable of continuing. The cheers emanating from the Gryffindors were simply too loud.

"How sad," Luna murmured. The elder witch could barely hear her over the sound of the lions' glee. "Your friend Neville should really have gotten in."

"He didn't even try," Hermione lamented. "I don't think that anyone else in my year tried. Mark didn't have any competition."

"Settle down," McGonagall barked. Grumbling, her students obeyed.

"Yes." Dumbledore smiled. "As I was saying, the remaining competitors for Gryffindor House are Katie Bell, Lee Jordan, Jack Sloper, and Oliver Wood."

The cheering resumed almost before he had finished Oliver's name. Gryffindor was utterly thrilled. With the Boy-Who-Lived on their team, how could they not win?

Dumbledore let the children rejoice for a few moments more before wryly commenting, "Would you like to know what your champions are up against, or would you prefer to be surprised?"

The Gryffindors settled down- not quickly, but they did eventually fall silent. Except for Mark's friends cuffing him on the back, the table was still.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said. "Now, just one more announcement before our delicious repast. The first task will take place on Halloween. It will test your cunning and quick-wittedness, your street smarts and wit. In other words, the Slytherin task."

The green and silver table grinned. They were clearly looking forward to this.

"But until then, chop chop!" He clapped. Food appeared on the tables, aromatic and steaming.

"…Isn't he going to tell us what the task is?" Hermione wondered.

Luna shook her head, blond hair hiding her luminous eyes. "Evidently not."

"Oh." Hermione shivered. "Oh dear."

* * *

><p>Am I the only one who didn't understand why no one warned the canon Champions about the <em>fire-breakthing lizards of death<em> they were expected to face? I can understand why they didn't spell out the second task- they had the riddle for that- and the third- the champions were actually warned that time- but dragons? Seriously? Dragons are scary when they want to roast you.

Also, I'm taking suggestions for any and all of the tasks. Just leave me something in a PM or review, whatever works. If I use your idea, I'll be sure to credit you.

-Antares


	7. Vox Veritatis

_On the fifth day of the negotiations, Alpha William of the werewolves suggested that wizards were not quite as much of a threat as the others suggested. "They tend not to think things through all the time." To which Grindstone of the goblins replied, "That hasn't stopped them before."_

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh_ (_The History of the Treaty_), translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

"It makes no sense!" Harry raged. "How are you supposed to prepare for the task if they don't tell you what it is? Blaise, Daphne, tell me how that's supposed to make sense."

"I wish I could, mate. I wish I could."

Daphne quirked a blond brow, "You seem rather more put out about the lack of information than the actual competitor does."

Harry met her eyes. "Of course I'm concerned. Two of my closest friends are in this tournament. I'd greatly appreciate it if they brought you out intact."

Daphne shook her head. "First years are involved, Harry. Dumbledore can't possibly have done anything too dangerous."

"Really." The younger Slytherin's voice was flat, cold. "Because I seem to remember Dumbledore manipulating my eleven-year-old brother into fighting Voldemort. Not to mention that Mark's gang was with him almost to the bitter end."

His friend flinched; then she went pale. Tori was competing! She had no doubt that she and Hermione, the only two of the prophesied five to compete, were more than capable of defending themselves, But Tori? Her sweet, innocent, rather naïve baby sister? She didn't stand a chance.

That was it. The moment this impromptu, unofficial meeting was done, she would track down her sister and start training her. Tori would protest at first, but it needed to be done.

Harry was not the only one who could obsessively overprotect a younger sibling. Poor Tori wouldn't know what hit her.

At the very least, it would help her in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"You okay, Daphne?" Harry asked.

"I'm fine." She schooled her face into a blank, neutral expression. Though she knew intellectually that she could trust the boys enough to show them her true feelings, old habits died hard. She was a Greengrass, and Greengrasses needed to hide their emotions at the drop of a hat; it would never do to lose the habit.

Blaise (who preferred to hide his own emotions under an actor's mask) rolled his eyes. One day Daphne would realize that her blank face only gave her away. His method, hiding laughter behind calm and calm behind laughter (at least around his enemies), was so much better.

"Maybe that's the point of the task," he suggested.

Two pairs of eyes, one green, one agate blue, stared at him.

"Think about it," he advised. "This is the Slytherin task, the trial to show cunning and ambition and street-smarts. How better to test that than making the students find out for themselves what their goal is? Obviously, only the smartest and brightest will be able to figure it out."

"That… actually makes sense."

Blaise pouted. "No need to sound so surprised, Harry. I _do_ make sense once in a blue moon."

He was greeted by chuckles and nods from his friends.

Daphne stood. "I need to go inform Astoria and Hermione of this," she informed her friends. "Then I need to tell my own team. And yes, Harry," she added, cutting off his question, "I will tell them to pretend they've come up with the idea on their own."

The person who came up with this idea would get prestige on her team. On the other hand, if it became known that Daphne had told a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw before alerting her own people…. No, best to let Hermione and Astoria claim credit for Blaise's discovery, just as Daphne herself would tell the Slytherins that it was her idea. She and the male Slytherins understood this automatically, without the need for explanations.

Hermione quickly realized why her friend wanted her to pretend that she herself had come up with the idea. The two witches wished each other luck before Daphne departed to find her sister.

Tori was a social butterfly, very popular with her peers. She'd been a bit shy at first, but Hufflepuffs were nothing if not friendly. They'd quickly brought the young badger out of her shell, and soon Tori was laughing and joking with the best of them.

In Slytherin House, she would have been slaughtered unless Daphne protected her (which she would have done, of course). But protection or not, she would have been thoroughly miserable in the serpents' den. Harry was doing his utmost to change the House, but Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither was the new Slytherin.

Daphne was profoundly grateful that her baby sister was a Hufflepuff, even if their parents were less than pleased.

The sisters met in the library, which, despite a slight overrepresentation of Ravenclaws, was generally considered a House-neutral zone. "Hi, Daphne," the younger girl called, waving.

"Hello, Astoria." She always used her sister's full name when people were watching, and right now, Madame Pince was eyeing them suspiciously. Daphne glided over to her sister's table, pulled out a chair, and sat. "Congratulations on being chosen."

"You too," her sister replied. Something flickered in her eyes, so like Daphne's in color but so unlike them in content. "Maybe Mother and Father will be happy enough about that that they'll forgive me for being a Hufflepuff."

"I've told you before, Astoria, there's nothing wrong with being a Hufflepuff," Daphne chided gently. "There's nothing wrong with learning how to work hard and long. It's certainly a more practical skill set than Gryffindor's chivalry and recklessness- though of course, not all Gryffindors are idiots."

"You mean your _boyfriend_ Neville?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "You know quite well that Neville and I are not dating."

"Yet."

The elder chuckled softly. "If you insist."

"You should bring him to the ball," Tori declared.

Daphne frowned. "What ball?"

Her sister grinned; pleased to know something that Daphne did not. "I've been reading up on the Triwizard Tournament. Each year the host school had a Yule Ball. This isn't exactly the Triwizard, but it's based on it, so I'm pretty sure there will be a ball around Christmas. I hope so. It sounds a lot more fun than the stuffy Christmas dinner we have to go to every year."

Daphne was tempted to point out that she rather enjoyed the 'stuffy Christmas dinners,' thank you very much, but quashed the urge. A quick glance around revealed that Madame Pince had gone off to spy on other students. Good. She didn't want any witnesses, no matter how impartial. "Speaking of the Tournament, I have an theory about the first task…."

Tori's eyes went wide. "But how are we supposed to find out?" she demanded. "I don't even know where to start."

"Neither do I," her sister confessed, "but I'm certain that someone will eventually make a plan."

"I'm guessing you want me to claim credit?" Tori posited after a moment's contemplation. She might not be a Slytherin, but she had been raised in a Slytherin household.

Daphne smiled, nodded. Her sister had learned well.

The Slytherins took to Blaise's theory (though they of course thought it was Daphne's) like fish to water. Their first strategy was to go to Professor Slughorn, ask him if he knew what the task was. The direct approach, Blaise called it. But Slughorn told his students that none of the Heads of Houses had been told what any of the tasks were. Dumbledore evidently believed that the temptation to cheat would be too much for them.

The potions master seemed rather put out about that, actually.

Daphne and her fellow champions were sent away with an invitation to a Slug Club dinner in their honor that would take place on the thirtieth.

Harry was positively thrilled by the news. "Remember what else happens on the thirtieth?" he asked gleefully.

"My choir practice?" Blaise guessed innocently.

Harry shot him a withering glare. "No. The first issue of the VV is coming out, that's what!" The boy looked ready to burst with excitement.

So of course Blaise had to burst his bubble. "Oh, right. That. Yeah, I supposed that's nice enough, but it has nothing on choir practice."

"I thought you hated choir?" Harry shot back.

"It grows on you," the other boy shrugged.

The younger Slytherin elected to ignore him. "My point is: the VV is due to come out that morning. That means that it'll probably be the topic of conversation that night."

"I think that choir practice will be the topic, actually."

"That stopped being funny five minutes ago, Blaise."

"Please be quiet," Daphne suggested. "I'm trying to make some notes here." Sure enough, Harry and Blaise could see the latest issue of Better than Binns peeking out from under her arm.

"You sure you want to do that this year?" Blaise asked. "You, Harry, and Hermione are all busy. Neville and I should take over the notes."

Daphne considered for a moment before ceding the notes to Blaise. "Just be aware that Hermione will never surrender her right to proofread these before they go public."

"Of course she won't. She's Hermione."

"True. But Harry, don't you think it would be a good idea to ensure that the partygoers will talk about the VV?"

"You mean carefully guide the conversation to the articles? Of course."

"I don't think the conversation will need any help, honestly," Blaise replied. "People still remember the great and magnificent heroes who saved all the poor innocent girlies from Lucius Malfoy's evil clutches."

Daphne flushed slightly. As one of the poor innocent girlies who had been rescued from Lucius Malfoy's evil clutches, she really ought to have thought of that. But everyone made mistakes once in a while.

The conversation became a repetition of which articles would appear in this particular issue of the _Vox Veritatis,_ the newsletter which Hermione had cooked up and which Sirius had helped edit.

Just under a week after that talk, Pollux Ophion Riddle Apparated to Founder's Isle with his four human companions. Sirius and Saysa were waiting for him.

"Wotcher," he greeted, having picked the expression up from Tonks. Then, worriedly, "Saysa, are you all right?"

The serpent-woman smiled faintly. "Yes. I'm quite fine, thank you."

She didn't look fine. She was paler than normal and a bit skinnier too. Considering how pale and slender she normally was, that was saying something.

"Have you been having nightmares again?" Hermione-as-Pallas queried gently.

Saysa's jaw tightened, which was answer enough.

She didn't like to admit it, but she had been haunted by nightmares since Dumbledore's appearance in the Department of Mysteries. Not that anyone blamed her- she had been tortured and hit with the Imperius Curse, forced to fight against a phoenix and Harry's own brother. She had every right to nightmares.

She just didn't want to admit it.

Daphne-as-Bianca, deciding that if Saysa didn't want to talk, then nothing they could do would make her, changed the subject. "Do you have the paper, Sirius?"

"Which paper?" was his innocent response. "The _Prophet?_"

Bianca scowled. "I rarely appreciate that sarcasm coming out of Apollo, and I certainly don't like it coming from you."

"Yeah, I've got it, Ms. No-fun." He handed her a thick stack of papers. "There. Issue One of the _Vox Veritatis._"

Bianca scanned it. "I don't see any errors offhand," she murmured. "Can any of you?"

A chorus of no answered her. "I have looked it over already," Saysa added.

"And she couldn't find any mistakes either, could you, Saysa?" Sirius chuckled.

She smiled slightly. "I could not."

"You really need to have more faith in me," Sirius teased.

"We do have faith in you," Pollux assured him. "Blame me. I'm the paranoid one."

"He admits it!" Padfoot and Apollo cried in tandem. They fell silent, blinked at one another.

"Kindred spirits, those two," Bianca groaned.

Pollux, Pallas, and Alexander exchanged amused grins before schooling their features into impassivity. "Shall we get started, then?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Let's," Sirius declared. One hand slipped into his pocket, touched the object he was storing there. "And before you ask, Bianca, I have those ones too. It took forever to shrink all those papers."

"Just be glad you didn't have to cast _geminio_ on them all," Pallas advised.

"Believe me, I am. How did you get your hands on blueprints for a printing press anyways?"

She grinned, thinking of Luna. The younger Ravenclaw had been more than happy to share her father's design with her best friend. "I have my methods, Padfoot. Now come on. The night's not getting any younger."

Acting as one, they Apparated to a certain glade in the Forbidden Forest (Saysa, of course, was carried along by Sirius). A centaur awaited them there. "Hello," she greeted, pressing her hands to her stomach in her people's gesture of respect.

The six humans and basilisk returned the gesture. "Thank you again for the use of this land," Pollux said. "May the stars smile upon your generosity."

"May they smile upon your destiny," she retorted. "You have the materials?"

"The materials and this conversation too, archer," Sirius butted in. "And we can see that your people too have kept their word- not that we doubted. Your people's honor is legendary."

The centaur beamed at him before trotting away. The humans and basilisk gawked. "What was _that_?" Apollo demanded.

"What?" Sirius was defensive. "I had to have picked up some manners, if only through osmosis. I just don't use them much."

They continued to stare.

"Everyone knows how prickly centaurs are," he continued. "That's almost as legendary as their honor. I'd rather overdo the politeness thing now and have them like me than underdo it and have them hate me. It's basic common sense."

An impatient hoot put an end to his monologue. Grateful, the Animagus looked up. His eyes went wide. "How many owls did they say they would get?"

"As many as they could," Bianca answered.

"Must be that honor thing," Apollo mused.

Every tree along the perimeter of their clearing was covered with owls: big owls, small owls, black and brown and white; branches sagged under their weight. A few of the birds, unable to find a perch in a tree, had lighted on the ground. They and their treed brethren stared at the humanoids with large, luminous eyes.

"I didn't realize there were this many owls in all of Britain," Pallas breathed.

"I guess there are," Apollo replied, bemused. "Or maybe they imported them from France. Or something. I don't know."

"The point is," Pollux said, dragging them back onto topic, "there should be enough owls to deliver a copy of this paper to every magical family in Britain, even the Muggle-borns' families."

Pallas smiled slightly as she imagined her parents' reactions.

"Yeah," Apollo deadpanned, "there really should be. That's a good thing, I admit, but right now, it's bad."

Pollux scowled. "What d'you mean it's bad?"

"We have to tie letters to all of them, just the seven of us. All night."

The humans and basilisk looked once more at the huge flock of owls and groaned.

In the end, it wasn't as bad as their Seer had predicted. Their four house-elves came to help, as did a trio of very bored young centaurs who spent most of the time chattering about obscure astrological principles that no one else understood (not that they said so). Still, they would all be very tired the next day. Sirius, Saysa, the elves, and the centaurs would be able to sleep it off the next day. The five students could not.

That was actually why Dudley hadn't come. He had apparently wanted to help- which was still surreal to Harry- but Sirius wouldn't let him. "You wanted to go to school," he reminded the Muggle. "That means you have to be awake for classes."

"But tomorrow's Sunday!"

"Which means that your sleep schedule will still be messed up on Monday."

But the Hogwarts students couldn't sleep in, much as they wanted to. The reasons for that were twofold: they had to maintain an appearance of normality and their roommates would wake them up anyways.

Blaise chucked a pillow at Goyle's head. It missed. "How is it," the exhausted Slytherin moaned, "that those two are practically mute, but they still make enough noise to wake the dead _every single time _I'm trying to sleep?"

"Because gorillas are clumsy?" Harry suggested. "I dunno." He yawned, jaw cracking.

Blaise stretched, cracked his joints. He did that every morning- he had a theory that cracking his back regularly would ward off spinal problems later in life.

"What time is it?" Harry wondered.

"Dunno," Blaise slurred. His vertebrates popped. "I don't have a watch."

"We need to get one for the dorm," Harry muttered. "All the dorms. Think I could convince Slughorn to set aside some Galleons for that?"

"_You _could. Slughorn loves you. Me though… nope. Therefore I must beg you to do so on my behalf."

"I'll pencil it into my schedule. Are you done yet?"

"Yeah." Blaise dragged himself out of bed. "I wonder if the others are up yet?"

"Probably," Harry answered. "But I think I need to shower before going to breakfast. I'm not awake yet."

"Suit yourself. Me, I'm hungry. Besides," he lowered his voice, "I don't want to miss the show. If we haven't already, that is."

Harry grinned, weighing his shower against the potential show. "Why not. I figure that food can wake me up just as well as hot water, don't you?"

"That, and the gorillas usually shower right after getting up. You're not going gorilla on me, are you, Harry?"

Harry just looked offended. "I most certainly am _not._"

"Keep telling yourself that, mate. Now come on. I'm hungry."

The Great Hall was packed with early risers scarfing down their breakfasts. Harry and Blaise could smell today's entrée even before they arrived in the hall itself- the mouthwatering scent of bacon wafted through the school, making them salivate: bacon and the first issue of their paper. This was already shaping up to be a great day, despite the lack of sleep.

Daphne, true to character, was already at the table. She even had a newspaper in her hands and was reading it avidly. The boys made a beeline for their friend, grinning ear to ear. The grins died when they got close enough to see the title. Daphne wasn't reading their work, just that day's copy of the _Daily Prophet._

"We did tell the owls to come here last," Harry sighed as he seated himself. "Better for us to wait a while than for Dumbledore to know so soon."

"Yeah." Blaise helped himself to some bacon. "And I wasn't lying when I said I was hungry. Anything interesting in the paper, Daphne?"

"Not really. That awful Umbridge woman is up to her old tricks…." Daphne flipped through the paper, occasionally stopping at a particularly interesting article and telling her friends (mostly Blaise. Harry focused on eating) the highlights. She was about halfway through when the owls arrived.

The students started, stared. "Didn't we already get the post?" asked a seventh year Slytherin. His companion nodded.

These were not the glossy pets and professional working animals which frequented wizarding households. These were the denizens of the Forbidden Forest, dirty and wild and inexperienced with the art of delivering letters. But they had been asked to do this by the centaurs, and so they would. Owls weren't the most magical of creatures, but they could sense the call of destiny.

That, and many of them had the blood of post owls running through their veins. Their ancestors had dallied many a time with Hogwarts's birds.

The five hadn't known how many students would be interested in having their own copy of _Vox Veritatis,_ so they had opted to send fifty copies to each House table and ten to the Head Table. That ought to satisfy everybody. If it didn't, students could use _geminio_ to acquire their own copy. They were wizards, after all.

Harry, Daphne, and Blaise plastered expressions of surprise onto their faces as they joined their fellow Slytherins in scrambling for a copy. They didn't try hard, of course- they already knew better than anyone else what was in those papers- but appearances must be maintained.

"What interesting articles," Blaise said loudly, peering over Palmer Parkinson's shoulders. "_The Truth about Lord Voldemort."_

"Don't say that!" the older student hissed, shuddering involuntarily.

"_Muggle Sense. The Horrors of Hogwarts. About the Authors. _And then there's the mission statement: 'To speak the truth at all costs. To expose the lies whenever we can. To bring down the high but unworthy and raise up the lowly but worthy. To promote peace for the peaceful and justice for the evil.' How very interesting."

"They should have put the staff article first," Parkinson growled. "I want to know who these people are." He flipped to the back of the book and froze.

"Will you look at that," said Blaise, tracing a name that had been famous for almost a year. _Pollux Ophion Riddle._

* * *

><p>Rage. Burning rage, all red and fiery. His master had been slandered, called the son of a filthy Muggle.<p>

The rage was hot as the sun, hotter even, hot enough to burn through the bindings around him. He could move- not well, but enough.

Take his father's copy of this so-called Voice of Truth. Grab the family owl, force it to obey. It hesitated, unused to the son's demands, but gave in. His father had grown cocky. He did not believe that his son even could use the owl.

Hands shaking, he wrote a simple message on the paper's margins. _Come to me, Master._

The owl accepted the paper. It leapt into the air, wings flaring, and flew off to its death.

* * *

><p>Oh noes! Poor birdie.<p>

Thanks to everyone who gave me suggestions last chapter. I've figured out the Slytherin task, but suggestions for the other three would be great, please. *puppy eyes*

-Antares


	8. Squirrels and Spite

_Eventually, it was (not without protest) agreed that hiding and biding our time was the best option._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh_ (_History of the Treaty), _translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

The wraith of the man once called Tom Marvolo Riddle, now known by his pseudonym Voldemort, hadn't had much luck possessing creatures with arms, much less thumbs. Therefore, it took a great deal of maneuvering to open up the letter which his faithful but unknown servant had sent to him. The Death Eater hadn't bothered signing his name, much to Voldemort's annoyance.

The owl remained perched on a tree, nervous and uncertain. Voldemort paid it no mind. It had shown no interest in attacking his current body, that of a squirrel (he'd gotten tired of snakes and snake food a few weeks ago. One could only swallow so much raw flesh whole before one yearned for vegetable matter), and even an attack on his host wouldn't kill him.

Muttering curses in Parseltongue, the possessed animal straightened out the unknown Death Eater's message. _Come to me, Master._

Voldemort scanned the rest of the paper's margins. Nothing. No hint as to who this might be or how he could go about coming to him.

Of course there wasn't any contact information. Of course not, that would be far too easy.

He looked at the rest of the paper. Lurking about in a largely uninhabited forest was boring beyond belief. He would devour this paper, read every last word of it, starting with the table of contents.

Voldemort snorted slightly at the mission statement. Which idiot had come up with-

_The Truth about Lord Voldemort_.

Squirrels lack eyebrows, but the animal's stolen facial muscles twitched in a way that lifted its forehead fur. This ought to be entertaining. Smiling as much as his current face would allow, the Dark Lord turned to the proper page.

_The man who calls himself Lord Voldemort was born on December 31, 1926 as Tom Marvolo Riddle, illegitimate son of Merope Pleione Riddle and Tom Riddle, Sr. _

The squirrel's jaw dropped. He reread the impossible sentence, heart rate soaring, eyes bulging. But no matter how many times he read it, the words remained the same.

How had they known?

The article was appalling in its accuracy. Whoever had written it had amazing insight into Voldemort's psyche, amazing knowledge about his past: raised in an orphanage, bully to other children (especially those which tried to befriend him), releasing Slytherin's monster and causing the death of Moaning Myrtle. It ignored his adult life after he'd been denied the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, pointing out that such things were widely known but Voldemort's heritage as a 'half-Muggle bastard' was not.

By the time he reached the last paragraph, a wry commentary on the irony of a half-blood recruiting 'inbred idiots' to purge the world of people like his father, Voldemort had resolved to murder the author, who was likely to be Dumbledore. This was exactly the kind of thing the old goat would find amusing.

Then he saw the author's name.

"_**Pollux Ophion **__**Riddle?**__**"**_ the Dark Lord raged. This person was using _his _name?

Furious, almost to the point of incoherency, he turned to the _About the Authors _article, read what this false (he had to be false; Voldemort had taken many precautions to make certain that his rape victims died within a couple months) Riddle had to say about himself.

_I have no doubt that you took one look at my name and blanched, wondering if the surname Riddle was just an unpleasant coincidence. Rest assured, it is not. When my friends and I decided on our pen names for this publication, which we have been working on for almost a year, Apollo Peverell suggested that I pick my name to spite Voldemort. As you can see, I took his suggestion. Voldemort, consider yourself spited. _

The squirrel's jaw hung open. A fly flew inside. The squirrel gagged.

The owl stiffened as its old instincts surfaced. Something was wrong. It jumped into the air, intending to escape, before falling to the ground. Its eyes flashed red.

The squirrel's lifeless body flopped to the ground.

* * *

><p>Jane Spencer stared in openmouthed shock at the newsletter before her. Tom Riddle was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Tom Riddle, who had gone to school a year ahead of her, whom she'd idolized as the most handsome boy in the entire country? Tome Riddle had become a mass murderer, a monster? No- according to this paper, he'd been one even then. He'd released the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets, it said, invoking an ancient spell that bound the beast to Slytherin's bloodline. He'd killed her poor friend Myrtle when he himself was just a boy.<p>

And the person writing this article was another Riddle. Pollux Ophion, whom she had seen a few months ago at the Ministry of Magic. Pollux Ophion, who had looked so much like Tom that she'd mistaken him for her old schoolmate. Pollux Ophion, the Dark Lord's…son?

Hands trembling, she turned to the article about the authors themselves. _I have no doubt that you took one look at my name and blanched, wondering if the surname Riddle was just an unpleasant coincidence…. Voldemort, consider yourself spited._

Well, this Riddle was brave, she'd give him that. Just not entirely honest- not that she blamed him.

Admittedly, Pollux hadn't introduced himself after she'd mistaken him for Tom. He'd just smiled apologetically, so unlike the other Riddle would have done, and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but my father died eleven years ago." Flustered, she had gotten off the elevator as soon as possible before getting his name.

Wait. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but my father died eleven years ago."

His father died eleven years ago.

His father. Eleven years ago.

Jane nearly fainted.

_When my friends and I decided on our pen names for this publication, which we have been working on for almost a year, Apollo Peverell suggested that I pick my name to spite Voldemort._

Sweet Merlin. She could imagine it: Pollux grumbling that he didn't want to use his father's name, this Peverell person pointing out that the goodness of the son would bring shame to the evil of the father. She could almost hear Apollo convincing Pollux to keep his birth name, to restore honor to the family, to thumb his nose in He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's face.

He was mad. There was no explanation. Surely no one could be that courageous, to spite a powerful, evil father who already loathed him for the pro-Muggle views he had doubtless expressed as a child? Or perhaps Pollux's mother was a victim of rape who had raised her son to overthrow the father. She didn't know. All she did know was that Pollux Ophion Riddle had to be the son of Tom Marvolo Riddle, more commonly known as You-Know-Who.

And, as a reporter for the _Daily Prophet,_ there was no way she would let that little tidbit remain unknown.

* * *

><p>The next day, Albus Dumbledore hid an uncharacteristically (or rather, very characteristically- he would have done this more often if he hadn't had to maintain appearances) cruel smile behind his newspaper. Pollux Ophion Riddle, or whatever his name was, should really have anticipated this.<p>

The article which had caused his smile- the headline, actually- had been written by Rita Skeeter's rival, a half-blood named Jane Spencer. The two women had been duking it out for three years now, their stories becoming steadily more outrageous, but everyone knew that Jane was (marginally) the better one to trust. If she said that Riddle had accidentally confirmed that he really was Voldemort's son, then Riddle might actually have done so. Or at least he might have said something that could be misconstrued like that. The point was, if Spencer wrote it, people believed it.

And Spencer had recorded her half-remembered conversation (or at least the conversation she claimed to have had. Dumbledore didn't particularly care. He knew that Voldemort had no heir; if Riddle had told her something like that, he had been lying. If Spencer was the liar, well, that was journalism for you) before spouting off a wild tale. Pollux's mother had, upon becoming pregnant, gone into hiding, raising her son to hate his father. After her death (which may or may not have had something to do with renegade Dark Wizards), Pollux had obviously embarked on a campaign of revenge and righteousness, because **clearly** Riddle's explanation that he was thumbing his nose in Voldemort's face was far too simple to actually be true.

But Pollux Ophion Riddle wasn't the only name with which he was concerned.

Bianca Frost. Pallas Dhar. Apollo Peverell. Alexander Chamberlain.

A prophecy he'd heard several months ago referred to Air as the key to destroying the Stormson, breaking his wings. Dumbledore had no doubt of the latter's identity- plainly that was Riddle. But Air could be any of those four. He didn't even know Air's gender- in Classical mythology, the sky was associated with male gods (though the Egyptians worshipped the sky-goddess Nut). In symbolism, though, air was feminine. He knew that Water was a 'maid' who had once stood alone, but she could be either Pallas or Bianca.

Prophecies were frustrating like that.

The best thing to do, he decided, was to kill them all. His agile brain sorted through the possibilities. They had abandoned the Chamber of Secrets; that meant he could no longer use the basilisk as leverage against them. They were doubtless using pseudonyms, though he would still send owls out to be certain. Better safe than sorry. And speaking of owls, perhaps he could send a Portkey to the basilisk? He knew her public appellation, though not her true name, and that was all owls needed. Yes, that was certainly worth a shot.

It frustrated him that he had so little information on them. They had appeared out of nowhere in January, stealing Voldemort's first Horcrux and its host. They had stolen- ah.

He had seen Tyr Ulfhednar with Riddle and Saysa when they had gone to the Department of Mysteries. Werewolves. Yes, werewolves would provide him with the opening he required.

Or, better yet, owls. He could attack both, a two-pronged assault, with the werewolves as more of a distraction than anything else. The werewolves he could destroy through the law- Dolores Umbridge had been pressing for harder restrictions on them for years; no one would be surprised when she got them- and the owls he could use as a means to an ends.

Dumbledore hid another smile.

* * *

><p>If Harry had had an ounce less self-control, he would have banged his head against the wall until his skull had gained the consistency of jelly. Instead, he sat stock-still save for his twitching eyes.<p>

"Look on the bright side." Blaise tried (and failed) to comfort him. "Voldemort is definitely spited now."

"You're not. Making this. Any better," his friend grunted.

The other Slytherin, remembering that he had suggested the name Riddle to begin with, winced. It had seemed hilarious at the time- it still was rather funny, truth be told- but the Wizarding world obviously didn't share his sense of humor. They couldn't believe that someone would essentially stick his tongue out at Voldemort (even if the man was supposedly long dead); they had to believe that Pollux Ophion Riddle had another, far less insane reason for using that name.

Daphne flipped through the paper. "This is a very interesting biography," she noted. "Did you know, Harry, that your mother was a Seer who foresaw Voldemort's evil long before he actually started murdering people and seduced him in an assassination attempt? Alas, but she failed, barely escaping the Dark Lord's wrath with her life- and yours."

"Bully for her."

"Indeed. My favorite part is your mother's prophecy that you and Mark Potter would together lead the Wizarding world into a new era of glory and wonder and power, et cetera et cetera et al."

"Bully for us."

"And how does Mark feel about this?" Blaise queried.

Harry groaned. "I don't want to know, but I think I do."

"That bad, huh?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

That was when Hermione and Neville burst into the abandoned classroom they used for writing and editing Better than Binns notes. The Ravenclaw champion bore a copy of the day's _Prophet_ in her hand.

"We heard," Blaise told her.

"Oh, yes," Harry groaned, leaning against the wall. His eyes fluttered shut. "We heard."

"I get the paper too," Daphne reminded them.

Hermione flushed. In her haste to warn her friends, she had completely forgotten that they probably already knew. Daphne's subscription was rather useful that way.

"So what do we do about it?" Neville wondered. His once-plump face was scrunched with worry.

"Mass Memory Charms," Harry muttered. "Then destroy every copy of this bloody article and-"

"I don't think that's feasible," Blaise pointed out.

"I know," Harry moaned, massaging his temples.

"We can't do anything," Daphne pointed out. "If we try to deny Pollux's… heritage… people will say that we're lying. If we do lie and say that yes, Spencer is right, people will believe it. If we say nothing, they'll believe that we're too ashamed to admit anything. What I would do is drop hints about Pollux's paternity that could go either way but take shameless advantage of the so-called prophecy. In fact," she smiled, "we could even give them some real prophecies to chew on."

The other four stared at her in mute shock.

"Nothing too incriminating, of course," she explained, waving a hand against their worries. "Nothing that Dumbledore could use to connect the dots and find us. Just vague whispers that will make people hopeful; make them want to follow us. Things like Pollux's nameless mother supposedly prophesied, things about a better world."

"Has anyone ever mentioned that you're brilliant?" Neville asked admiringly.

Daphne dimpled. "Thank you, Neville."

Hermione coughed. "We should probably stew this over for a while," she suggested.

"Meaning that we're late for class," Blaise translated, "and we should think about this in History of Magic instead of skipping it entirely."

"Well, yes."

But they had a hard time thinking about anything in History of Magic. Slytherin House didn't even pretend to pay attention; they exchanged a huge flurry of notes about "Did you hear?" "Do you think it's true?" "How should we react if he really is the Dark Lord's son?"

The note-passing got so bad that Binns, who was notorious for never noticing such things, noticed. That, of course, resulted in the students explaining the situation to him. The ghost gave up teaching and joined the debate, cheerily citing historical examples of Seers setting events in motion that had changed the world, starting with the Oracles of Dodona (and, of course, the much more famous Delphi) before moving into the present day. For once, the students actually listened to the uncommonly interesting lecture.

It was the most fun they'd ever had in History of Magic, and Harry made sure to tell Binns so. The ghost blinked watery gray eyes before tilting his head back in thought. "Hm…."

"That was weird," Blaise announced. "I actually enjoyed Binns's class."

"It was indeed," Daphne agreed, slightly perturbed.

"What's weird?" asked a passing fourth-year Hufflepuff.

"History of Magic," Blaise answered. "It was actually interesting."

The Hufflepuff snorted.

Gossip about Pollux Ophion Riddle- yes, Riddle, as in the surname he claimed had once belonged to You-Know-Who- abounded for the next several weeks. The _Daily Prophet _spurred on these rumors, printing increasingly idiotic rumors that were generally believed by the Wizarding public. Harry and his friends began to regret that they were only publishing one newsletter per month- they'd have to wait until the end of October to put a stop to this in their own paper.

Naturally, Harry was too impatient to wait. Despite Daphne's council, he wrote a letter to the _Prophet_ explaining that no, he really wasn't Voldemort's son, just his enemy. It was just a coincidence that his father, Tyndaeus (last name unspecified), had died in January 1992 of liver problems. It was a brilliantly written letter, a voice of reason.

Too bad nobody believed it.

"Maddening," Harry-as-Pollux growled to Saysa, stalking back and forth. "It's going to drive me barmy, I tell you."

"Well," Sirius shrugged, watching them from a corner, "from their perspective, it makes sense."

He said it a bit too casually. Pollux, glaring, demanded, "And what do you think about it, hm, Padfoot?" His voice carried a challenge.

The Animagus held up a placating hand. "Just that they don't know a lot about you. And your resemblance to the man in question doesn't help."

"_They_ don't." Pollux was unimpressed by Sirius's attempt at prying for information. But, he supposed, I _did _promise Remus. "I'm not Voldemort's son, Sirius." The disguise sloughed off. "I'm James's."

Sirius fell off his chair.

That, of course, took up the rest of the day. Harry even missed Quidditch practice (for which he apologized most heartily), though he much rather would have been riding his broomstick than listen to Sirius rant and rave about how stupid he was for doing this, how utterly idiotic, did Remus know, and was he trying to get himself KILLED? Harry's responses: yes, it is stupid, but it's also necessary; Remus did know- he's the one who bullied me into telling you; no, I am not attempting to get myself killed and have no intention of doing so. Now please lower your voice so we can discuss this like rational human beings.

Padfoot had not been amused.

In the end, it had taken five hours, a missed dinner, and several long, rambling explanations before Sirius calmed down. Well, actually, there had been six or seven incidents when he had almost calmed down. Then Harry had let something slip- his friends' identities, the Sorting Hat's complicity- and the Animagus had gotten angry (not hysterical, he would say afterwards. I don't get hysterical) again.

"Sirius knows," Harry told Blaise before collapsing into bed. Who would have thought that explaining things could take so much energy?

But, fortunately for the Parselmouth's sanity, gossip in the castle (if not in the wider Wizarding world) soon turned to something far more interesting and important: Quidditch. The first match, Team One ("The Hogwarts Horntails") vs. Team Two ("The Northern Knights") was fast approaching. Teams Three through Eight found themselves almost incapable of practicing; the first two teams took up the field twenty-four/seven.

When the first Saturday of October finally arrived, almost the entire school poured out onto the Quidditch pitch to see what would happen, who would win, how these odd mixed-House teams would play.

Much to everyone's surprise, the two teams played just as well as (if not better than) the official House teams. The match was absurdly close, the Seekers neck and neck as they dove for the Snitch. Only the fact that the Horntails' Seeker was two years older and several inches longer in the arm allowed them to win.

"Great game, don't you think?" Harry laughed. As a member of Team Three, the Scotland Spitfires, he had spent the morning in the stands.

"Best I've ever seen," Blaise agreed.

Daphne and Hermione, neither of them Quidditch fans, exchanged indulgent grins. Daphne's sister Astoria (despite only being a first year, she was a member of Team Six, the Castle Corps) nodded fervently. She wasn't just nodding because of her crush on Harry; she too thought it was a wonderful game. She, the five companions, and Luna Lovegood spent the walk back to the castle discussing plays, strategies, and favorite moments from the game.

With the first game out of the way, talk in the castle turned back to the Tournament of Houses. Pollux was almost forgotten, though a small cadre of students still met to discuss the VV's articles.

Despite several attempts to pry information from teachers, prefects, anyone and everyone who might know what the Slytherin Task would be, no news was forthcoming. Everyone kept their mouths firmly shut, much to the Champions' dismay.

When the day came, they would all have to go in blind.

* * *

><p>FORGIVE ME! I had no intention of being gone that long and definitely won't do it again. The next chapter, which covers the Slytherin Task (not the Hufflepuff one, as Mark erroneously led you to believe) should be up a lot sooner than this one. My schedule's a lot better now, so updates WILL be more regular. I'll make it that way if it kills me.<p>

Thanks to everyone for putting up with my delay. Thanks espeically to the reviewers- you guys make my day!

-Antares


	9. Slytherin's Stone

_The various leaders had held many differing expectations about what the great meeting would entail, but, as none of them anticipated the Guardian's appearance, they could not have been more wrong. _

_Sayern nar'Hazohz _(_The History of the Treaty_), translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

"Let's hope," Daphne muttered darkly, "that I wasn't correct about the preliminaries for the Slytherin Task."

Around her, six grim-faced wizards in green-trimmed robes nodded. For the past few weeks, they had done everything in their power to uncover the first task: bribery, asking teachers, wheedling, even a bit of espionage. Members of other Houses had done the same- rumor had it that a Ravenclaw had even tried to spike Dumbledore's evening pumpkin juice with a truth potion, but to no avail.

"At least the other Houses didn't get it either," pointed out Emrys Srijata, the seventh year champion. He was short, just barely cresting five feet, with dusky skin and liquid brown eyes. Girls had been known to complain about his height, the only thing keeping him from attaining the lofty status of 'total dreamboat.' "We might not have an advantage, but we're not disadvantaged either."

"I'd rather have the advantage," grumbled Celeste Montague. Stocky, almost fat, she stood half a head higher than the other Slytherin. "And what if that _was_ what we were supposed to do?"

"I hope not," the first year champion muttered fervently. Adelbert Bulstrode's blocky face was slick with sweat. "I just wish they'd start already so we could go and get it over with."

Celeste and a couple other champions frowned. Daphne patted Adelbert's shoulder. "I strongly believe that we weren't supposed to find out beforehand. The tasks are supposed to be difficult, not impossible. And even if it was, there is nothing we can do about it now. Besides, as Emrys said, no one else succeeded either."

"That we know about," declared Montague. "The other Houses could be lying to us. I wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to drop a line to his precious Boy-Who-Lived."

Daphne's lips tightened. The older girl had been her prime rival within the team, a voice of paranoia and suspicion and competition. She had never been interested in cleaning up Slytherin House, and of course she wasn't going to start now.

"I see Dumbledore!" Philip Harper exclaimed.

The other Slytherins turned. Sure enough, Dumbledore, clad in a garish purple robe that would have made Lockhart wince, strode serenely into the Great Hall. The seven students in the roped-off section for champions perked up. They weren't the only ones. The entire hall quieted. Not even ghosts spoke. Everyone leaned forward, eagerly awaiting the first task.

So, of course, Dumbledore took his time approaching the Head Table. By the time he finally, _finally _arrived at his seat, some of the more impatient students were practically frothing at the mouth. "Start already!" they wanted to scream (though fortunately everyone had the good sense to remain silent). "Spit it out!"

Dumbledore twinkled at them. He drew out the tension for another infinite moment before announcing, "The first task of the Tournament of Houses is about to begin."

Heads bobbed impatiently. We know that, old man. That's why we're all here instead of sleeping in or doing homework or practicing Quidditch. Get on with it!

"The Slytherin Task is designed to test cunning, cleverness, and adaptability," he continued. Was it just Daphne's imagination, or was he speaking more slowly than normal? She couldn't tell. Still, she wouldn't put it past him. "As such, you had no warning beforehand and were not supposed to have one, despite rumors that finding out the task was part of the task."

Montague and Bulstrode went limp with relief. "Thank Merlin," the first year muttered.

Daphne winced, all that anxiety over nothing.

"'But why would we need warnings?' you might ask," Dumbledore continued. "You would need warnings because the task will take place in the Forbidden Forest."

Whispers erupted all around the Great Hall. Was he mad? There were all sorts of monsters in the forest, werewolves and acromantulas and maybe a basilisk and hostile centaurs and- and- it was forbidden for a reason, you know!

Dumbledore continued on as though he hadn't noticed the children's fear. "The teams will be given two hours to complete their mission, which is to find a clue to the Hufflepuff Task somewhere in the woods. Teams are allowed to ambush each other and, indeed, even steal another team's clue. If you do not have a clue by the end of the two hours, you will be forced to go into the Hufflepuff Task blind."

"In other words, we need to steal someone else's clue," Montague muttered. "That way we'll stay safe while disabling another team. I vote we follow the Gryffindors."

The other Slytherins looked far, far too tempted by her suggestion.

Daphne fought back a groan. After her suggestion fell through, she had no way of convincing them to do their own work instead of mooching off someone else's. Yes, stealing the answer might strategically be the soundest choice for the contest, but the Tournament was not real life. They would win this round at a cost she, for one, was not willing to pay.

But her teammates probably wouldn't care. All they wanted was victory and glory for Slytherin House.

"One hint," Dumbledore added. "The clues will be hidden along a stream."

Daphne's head perked up. If a stream was involved, it would probably drain into the lake. All they would have to do is follow the lake until they found a stream that led into the Forbidden Forest, after that they had to merely follow the water. In fact, she was quite certain she knew the stream Dumbledore was talking about.

The headmaster waved his wand. An enormous hourglass filled with green, red, yellow, and blue sand appeared. It floated above the Head Table, shimmering slightly in the enchanted ceiling's light.

"The two hours begin in five… four… three… two… _one."_

The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws bolted out of the room. The Slytherins turned to the Gryffindors, who were in turn looking at the Slytherins.

"Let's go outside," Emrys murmured, not taking his eyes from the red and gold table. "Make it look like we're not going to ambush them. Anyone here good with Disillusionment Charms?"

"I am," Daphne sighed. She wasn't anywhere near Harry's skill level, but she had managed to pick up a few things by hanging around him.

The Slytherins pushed themselves out of their chairs, ambled leisurely towards the forest. As they walked, Daphne wracked her brains, searching for a way to convince them to take another path.

She couldn't find anything they would listen to. Fortunately (or perhaps not), she didn't have to.

"We lost them," Mark Potter groaned. "How are we supposed to follow the Slytherins to the clue if we've lost them already?"

Celeste couldn't stop herself. "Hey!"

Mark jumped.

"Like we need them," sneered an older Gryffindor. "Come on. We can do this without their help."

But instead of searching on their own, the Gryffindors doubled back, only to discover that the Slytherins had been trailing them. It would have been almost comedic if tensions- and tempers- weren't so high.

"You're following us?" Mark made their plan sound like a capital crime.

"Like you weren't doing the same," Montague snapped.

"We're not going to do your work for you!" the older Gryffindor yelled. His face was going red.

"Same here," growled Montague. Her arms folded across her chest as she glared at the bulky lion. "Not if our lives depended on it."

…Harry was delusional. There was no way, simply no way, that rivalries this deep-seated could be plucked up by a quintet of third years.

Daphne sighed heavily, scanned the Gryffindors for anyone willing to see reason. They were all riveted on the confrontation between Montague, the Gryffindor whose name she had forgotten, and the false Boy-Who-Lived; in other words, no one.

The girl considered. After a moment's thought, she nodded slightly to herself. She slid behind Emrys, who raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, and whispered the Disillusionment Charm. Her body faded almost to the point of invisibility. Silent as a cat, the Slytherin padded away.

She wished she had more skill in her abilities as an Animagus and a weather witch. A fox could move much more easily through the undergrowth than a young woman could, and better-trained weather witches could sometimes detect the shape of the landscape around them. But though Hermione had found her some excellent books, she lacked a teacher and was therefore very far behind where she should have been. She could predict the weather better than the best meteorologist in the world, but couldn't yet deliberately control it.

The others tried telling her that predicting weather was important, that she was improving by leaps and bounds even without a tutor, but Daphne wasn't quite certain if she believed them.

The Slytherin scowled, shook herself. Moping about her lack of weather witch abilities wasn't going to do her any good. Moping never did anyone any good.

She half-walked, half-jogged through the forest towards the lake. Soon enough she found a small brook. Was it the one hiding the clues? She resolved to walk about a mile upstream. If she hadn't found anything by then, she would seek out another.

It was quite peaceful, really, walking through the forest by herself. She would probably think otherwise if it wasn't for Firenze's strenuous routine, but thanks to the centaur, she was fit enough to make the trek.

Sure enough, Daphne found a stone tablet standing in the water about half a mile upstream.

"How very disappointing," the girl muttered. She had expected the first task to be a bit more… exciting. Or perhaps the excitement was on the tablet itself?

Better safe than sorry. She drew her wand; casting a basic spell detection spell that technically wasn't learned until fourth year but which she had decided to study anyways. Sure enough, the tablet glittered with a weak spell, but what kind of spell? It could have something to do with the tablet's function as a clue, not the defenses around it.

Only one way to find out, Daphne threw a rock from the streambed at the tablet. It bounced without triggering any spells, so the enchantment on the stone _probably _wasn't defensive in nature.

She approached it with caution anyways. No need to be a fool.

The tablet was smooth as the water in which it stood, too smooth to be entirely natural. It was about one foot across at its widest point, a rounded gray rectangle just over an inch thick. No writing marred its surface, just the faint residual shimmer of the spell.

Apparently figuring out the clue was another task entirely.

Since it didn't seem ready to attack her, Daphne picked up the stone. It was much lighter than it appeared, almost as though it was hollow. Perhaps it was. Perhaps that was the clue.

Daphne shook her head. No need to get ahead of herself. For now, it was enough to retrieve the clue and get back to her teammates before their deadline expired.

It would have been much easier to do so if she hadn't run into a trio of Ravenclaws halfway back to the rest of her group.

Daphne froze. The Ravenclaws froze. One's eyes flickered to the tablet in her hand. "The clue!"

Daphne bolted.

She was larger than two of the other students (not Hermione or Luna, curse it; these were probably the first and fourth year champions), but the eldest was seventeen years old and quite a bit taller than the third year. However, despite her relative shortness, she had a huge advantage over the older student: she could run. She had been trained to do so by Firenze.

And so she ran. Penelope Clearwater sprinted after her. One hand fumbled for her wand.

"_Petrifi-"_

Daphne grabbed a tree trunk, used it to pivot her around. She dropped the tablet; it flew several feet before hitting the dirt. "_Protego!_"

Clearwater ignored the Shield Charm. The tablet began to float, powered by her Levitation Charm.

Daphne scowled, cast her own spell. The tablet froze in midair.

But, satisfying as Clearwater's stunned expression was, Daphne's solution was temporary at best. The other Ravenclaws were doubtless approaching full tilt.

So she charged Penelope, knocking her onto the ground. A quick Body-bind ended that threat.

"My apologies," Daphne said. "But your friends will be here shortly." She took back the tablet, recast her Disillusionment Charm, and jogged off to her teammates.

The other Slytherins were still engrossed in their argument with the Gryffindors, if it could still be called an argument. Wands had been drawn, fists bloodied, lips split.

The Daughter of Frost heaved a heartfelt sigh, feeling almost as old as Saysa.

She was tempted to do… something, but what could she do? So, with dragging feet, she trod towards the Great Hall.

Surprisingly, the Hufflepuffs and remaining four Ravenclaws had already arrived. They were waiting tensely at their own tables. When the door swung open to grant Daphne admittance, all eyes swung towards her.

Daphne wondered if she'd lose points for coming in alone. Probably, but hopefully not too many; the stereotypical Slytherin was a loner, reliant on herself and herself alone. The stereotypical Slytherin would have no qualms about abandoning her classmates, striking out on her own. No, she reflected sourly, Dumbledore wouldn't dock too many points for enforcing _that _stereotype.

Only an hour had passed. Astoria hastened over to her sister's table. "You have to report to Professor Dumbledore now," she explained. "That way he knows what you did and how many points to give you."

"Thank you." Daphne took her sister's advice. She approached the headmaster. "Professor Dumbledore…?"

Their conversation took less than five minutes. It involved a great deal of frowning on Dumbledore's part and neutrality on Daphne's. When she was finished, the Slytherin returned to her own table to wait out the rest of the task.

The second hour stickled past at the speed of molasses in Antarctica. None of Daphne's teammates returned, nor did any of the Gryffindors. The rest of the Ravenclaws showed up with a few minutes to spare, but thirteen people had yet to return.

Finally, the frowning Dumbledore cast two Patroni, one for each team. "A few more minutes," he told the Hall. The students, horribly bored by now (where was the excitement? How were they supposed to see anything when the competitors were traipsing all around the Forbidden Forest and they were in the Great Hall?), mumbled something unintelligible. A few shifted restlessly in their chairs.

Since she had nothing better to do- she wasn't allowed to interact with anyone not on her team until the task was over- Daphne examined the stone tablet. Her fingers ran over it, searching for grooves. Sure enough, she found one on its side. The stone was indeed hollow, and she'd learned how to open it. She wouldn't actually do so until she was out of the Hall- she didn't want anyone else to learn the secret from her- but made a mental note to do so once she was in the safety of the Slytherin dorms.

The Gryffindors and remaining Slytherins slunk in, tails between their legs. Lips had been split, eyes blackened, and Emrys and Philip were limping. They had to lean on Montague for support. But it was clear that the injuries to their bodies didn't sting half as much as the injuries to their pride.

_Good_, Daphne thought vindictively. She hoped that this would teach them a lesson on the consequences of holding petty grudges.

"Did you get it?" Emrys demanded. He looked even worse up close than he had from a distance. He was one of the few students with both a black eye (two of them, actually) and a split lip. Some of his hairs had been torn from his scalp, and his nose was rather too squashed to be healthy.

"I got it." Daphne touched the stone lying on the chamber. "And I believe I know how to open it." At Emrys's confused look, she explained, "There isn't anything written on it, but I believe it has some kind of message inside." She moved her hand to the groove.

Emrys nodded. "Later, then."

"Of course."

Dumbledore and the four Heads of House rose to their feet. The students, who had been fighting their boredom with inconsequential chatter, quieted. They fixed their gazes upon the men and women in charge of handing out points.

"Hufflepuff was the first team to return," Dumbledore proclaimed, "due to a very clever use of the school brooms, and so they shall be judged first."

Daphne glanced towards Astoria. The younger Greengrass girl's face had gone absolutely white. Daphne made a calming gesture, but her sister didn't see. She was too focused on the headmaster and the three Heads who would judge her. Sprout, being Head of Hufflepuff, was not allowed to grant points to her own House.

McGonagall cast her vote first: nine out of ten points. She smiled tightly at the surprised badgers- they knew how hard it was to get such a good grade out of the stern deputy headmistress- before narrowing her eyes at her own students.

Flitwick granted nine as well; Slughorn only eight. Dumbledore, though, was slightly more generous, giving nine points once again.

The Hufflepuff table cheered raucously, thrilled to have gotten thirty-five points out of forty. Sprout joined the clapping, face bright with pride. Then they quieted, waited for the Ravenclaws to hear their score.

"The Ravenclaws started out near the Black Lake and followed the first two streams they found through the forest. Because they lacked the Hufflepuffs' aerial advantage, one team was attacked by acromantulas; the other got into a fight with another team." Not quite the truth- they'd only gotten into a fight with Daphne, but that was all right with her.

McGonagall granted an eight, Sprout another eight, Slughorn a seven, and Dumbledore another seven. The Ravenclaws cheered, but not quite so loudly as the Hufflepuffs had done. Flitwick shot his students a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile. _We'll get them next time,_ he seemed to promise. _But for now, thirty points isn't bad._

"One Slytherin returned third." All eyes flickered towards Daphne. "Miss Greengrass took advantage of a distraction to ensure that she would not be ambushed and found her clue on her own. The other Slytherins, though, had to be called back."

Five from McGonagall. Flitwick and Sprout were kinder, granting six each, but Dumbledore agreed with his deputy. Slytherin had earned only twenty-two points.

But at least they hadn't done as badly as the humiliated Gryffindors. The lions hadn't even gotten into the Forbidden Forest, much less retrieved their goal. They received eight points total, and in the opinion of many, that was far too generous.

"How humiliating," Emrys grumbled as he and the others trekked out of the hall. "We got beaten by Hufflepuff. _Hufflepuff_. How did that happen?"

"It happened because Gryffindor and Slytherin hate each other," Daphne coolly explained. "I thought that was rather obvious, myself."

Emrys (not to mention Adelbert and Celeste) winced. "I suppose you're right," he admitted grudgingly. Then, changing the subject to something more enjoyable, "Do you have any idea how to open that?"

By this time, they had arrived in the Slytherin dormitories. Many of their Housemates had crowded around, waiting to see the clue.

"You got it, Daphne," Emrys announced. "That means you get to open it."

Daphne nodded, face serene, but inside she was gloating. Emrys was (by default if nothing else) the team leader; he was the oldest and most experienced, and he was well-respected in Slytherin House. By giving her permission to open the clue, by praising her in front of the others, he had greatly increased Daphne's own prestige and, indirectly, the prestige of her cause.

Very gently, she drew her wand, pointed it at the tablet. "_Apere,_" she intoned.

The tablet opened.

A voice filled the Common Room. Neither male nor female, young nor old, it spread to every crack and crevasse in the chamber, filling each and every ear.

_Seven champions and seven banes,  
>Each champion clad in chains:<br>One as mole and bat and night,  
>One trembling in skittish fright,<br>One immune to mandrake's scream,  
>One can't be woken from a dream,<br>One who can't at all be heard,  
>One who knows not even one word,<br>Unite to save the final one,  
>The stolen, sleeping champion.<br>Choose wisely ere the task is nigh,  
>Or do not bother even to try.<br>_

* * *

><p>Why, you might ask, was this task so... lame? Part of it is, surprisingly, canon- the 2nd and 3rd tasks of GoF involved staring at a lake for an hour and watching a maze. The other part is that the tasks aren't the main focus of my book, so I didn't want to spend five chapters describing each one.<p>

-Antares


	10. Rat Hunt

_"The ambassadors from each race were as follows..."_

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_The History of the Treaty),_ translated circa 1952

"I'm still a bit offended that I can't come with," Hermione sighed.

Harry huffed. "What do you want us to do? Last time you ran across one of the Fae, you got kidnapped. Now you want to walk right into their Samhain gathering?"

Hermione shook her head. "I never said I would go," she pointed out. "Just that I'm a bit offended that I can't. I'd certainly like to go." Her mouth thinned in a manner reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall. "But I do understand why I can't. You will ask them for me, won't you?"

"Of course," Daphne promised.

"All right then." Hermione forced a smile. "Try to have… er, not necessarily fun, but…. Be safe. Remember not to eat anything of theirs, and stay as close as you can to Saysa. You have your holly and iron?"

Her friends nodded. Blaise patted his pocket. The iron nails inside it clanged. "We'll be safe, Hermione. Really."

The girl sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just that I can't help but worry. None of our interactions with this world's neighbors have gone well so far."

"That's because they're weird," muttered Harry.

Saysa laid a hand upon his shoulder. "The night is passing us by," she reminded the five students. "If you want to sleep at all, you should come now."

"Good point," Blaise acknowledged. "See you, Hermione."

"Goodbye, all."

Thanks to Firenze's fitness lessons, the five students had become remarkably adept at sneaking out to the Forbidden Forest. Not that sneaking out was difficult. They each possessed a Portkey to the heart of the Chamber of Secrets, which gave them access to an exit into the woods. They had been a bit worried earlier that year when Mark and his friends blew up the main entrance to the Chamber, but enough time had passed that no one went down there to gawk anymore. They still had to be cautious whenever they Portkeyed into it, but they hadn't been busted yet.

That night was no exception. The Chamber of Secrets was empty of life; not even a rat scampered across the floor.

Harry flicked his holly wand. Light burst from its tip, banishing the darkness. Silent and alert, he followed Saysa through the hidden room and into the forest.

The light from his wand kept them from stumbling, even though their fancy dress robes weren't meant for long treks through the woods at night, but it also cast long, twisting shadows. Every crevasse in the trees became a canyon, every branch an arm reaching for them. Harry shuddered slightly at the eerie effect, poured more magic into his light. That only served to make the shadows more obvious, darker by comparison.

He was very, very relieved when they heard the first notes of music in the distance. His relief evaporated almost immediately when he remembered that at last year's Samhain feast, the Fae hadn't had very good lighting. They'd relied on will-o-the-wisps and marsh fire to light their revelry. He had no reason to believe that they would change their ancient tradition.

His prediction proved accurate. Light like moonbeams pooled at the ends of branches, transforming the clearing into a shifting tapestry of light and shadow and blurs of color. And, of course, they had to cross that madly changing dance floor to reach their goal.

The Winter Queen watched in ice-eyed amusement as the children and Saysa approached her divan. "Well met, Pollux Ophion Riddle," she purred, ignoring everyone but Harry.

The Parselmouth stiffened but decided that the pseudonym was better than her invoking his birth name.

Daphne curtsied with an elegant swish of her silver-and-navy dress robes. "Well met, Majesty," she intoned. The Daughter of Frost was in her element. "We greet you." She rose, tall and poised.

"I greet you as well, Daughter of Frost," the Fae woman replied. "And the Prince of Flowers, and the Smoking Mirror." Her eyes settled on Neville for a moment before moving onto Blaise. "But where is Truth's Messenger?"

"One of your people's knights has displayed an unhealthy interest in her," Daphne explained. The sapphires in her ears caught the wisp-light, glittered like ice crystals. She didn't mention that they didn't know whose knight the orange-eyed Fae was- better not to blame the Winter Queen. "We thought it best to leave her behind until an explanation had been given."

"She is to solve the riddle," the Winter Queen said. "And she has the sight of our people."

Harry went white at the thought of Hermione dabbling in Fae magic. The Winter Queen noticed. One side of her mouth arched in a smooth smile. "But fear not, Lightning Speaker, for that sight shall be her salvation."

Blaise nearly staggered under the weight of sudden knowledge. Not understanding what he was saying, knowing only that it needed to be said, he blurted out, "Your word, Majesty."

The music around them stopped. As one, the Fae turned to glare at the young upstart who had demanded a promise of their queen. Blaise shivered under their gazes but didn't take back his words. Instead, he reiterated them, though (he had to admit) in a smaller voice than before. "Your word."

"I do not make oaths quite so lightly as your kind, boy," the Fae declared. "But if you bring Truth's Messenger here tonight _and_ allow her to take part in the restoration of the hollow hills, then I will give my word."

Saysa shook her head, eyes wide in silent pleading, but Blaise was resolute. He still had no idea what he was doing, but by Merlin, _it needed to be done._ If not…. The part of him that was a Seer shivered, curled up in a tiny ball. "With your leave, Majesty, I will bring her now." Not daring to look at the others, he grasped his Portkey and whispered the password. Moments later, he sprinted out of the Chamber of Secrets, made a beeline for the Ravenclaw dorms.

Hermione, once she'd heard Blaise's explanation, was torn. On the one hand, curiosity compelled her to attend. On the other… "What do you think you're playing at?"

"If she doesn't give her word, something bad will happen," Blaise explained. "I don't know what or how or anything, but I just know that this needs to happen. Please, Hermione. I wouldn't ask you to do this if I wasn't absolutely sure."

She hesitated only a moment longer, for how could she say no to a Seer? "All right, but they'll have to deal with me in my school robes."

"Great." Blaise held out his Portkey. "I came to the Chamber from the grove, so this should take us back to the grove."

Magic tugged at their navels. The Fae surrounded them, their gazes pressing down- but not as intently as the humans' glares.

Hermione ignored them all. She curtsied to the pale, imposing woman on the divan. "Well met, Majesty." Miraculously, her serpent sight wasn't flaring. Perhaps she was getting better.

"Well met, Truth's Messenger," the Winter Queen purred. "I give you my word that one day, you will be grateful indeed for your sight."

Not-colors and not-scents flared, uncontrollable, dizzying, frenzied. The serpent sight had returned with a vengeance, crushing her under its power.

The last thing she heard before passing out was the Winter Queen's laughter.

* * *

><p>"Oh, my head."<p>

"Hermione!" four- no, five- voices chorused.

"I'm sorry," continued one of the voices, frantic. "I swear I had no idea that would happen. I just know that the alternative was worse."

Memory returned in the form of a throbbing headache. Hermione groaned. Her stomach heaved. "Bucket."

"Huh?"

Fortunately, Hermione didn't need the bucket, though her poor belly wouldn't settle down for almost another hour. That didn't stop her from accepting the receptacle Harry conjured for her, setting it down upon her lap.

"I'm sorry," Blaise repeated, wringing his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll do anything to make it up to you." His brown eyes were wide with concern.

Hermione shook her pounded head, winced as more pain spiked through her temples. "I'll be fine, Blaise. I forgive you. But what _was_ that about?"

The boy's face fell. For once, he looked his age, a child of twelve years. "That's just the thing, Hermione," he confessed, voice saturated with grief. "I still don't know."

* * *

><p>Everyone but Remus Lupin himself was unsurprised at how well he had adjusted to taking Tyr's place. In all honesty, it wasn't an enormous job, more ceremonial than anything. He would settle the occasional dispute, oversee training routines, interface with 'Pollux' and his friends (which he'd done anyways), kept track of miscreants, and occasionally called together a 'party' to discuss current events and conspire (their Auror guards now thought that he had become a party animal). Sure, there had been a few incidents when others made up disputes to test him, but that was to be expected.<p>

"I don't get what you were worried about," Sirius said. The two canines were sitting in one of the new cottages on Founder's Isle. The Animagus had created a small village in the past few months, complete with a greenhouse and a castle fort, though the castle fort had been there beforehand. If push came to shove and the werewolves were forced to retreat, they would be able to crowd into these cottages and be safe. Sirius was even thinking about buying up a couple of the neighboring islands so he could eventually expand. "You're a good alpha, Moony, just like you were a good beta."

"I didn't even realize I was beta until Tyr announced it in front of everyone."

Sirius laughed. Remus mock-pouted, which made his friend laugh even harder. "Oh, quiet, you," the werewolf ordered. "As alpha, I command you!"

Padfoot transformed into his dog form. His laughter became suspiciously laughter-like barking. The dog sprinted off, paused, glanced over his shoulder. His tail wagged.

Remus took the hint. He shifted, bones melting, skin sprouting fur. Soon a large wolf stood in his place. The animal shook himself once before charging after his friend.

Had anyone told him a year ago that he would gladly take werewolf form, and in broad daylight, no less, he would have backed away slowly. But this year, he had discovered a love of running in his wolf form. Most werewolves had- there was something about being sleek and swift that made them cut loose. So it was with great reluctance that he finally projected, **"Okay, Sirius, we've got to stop now."**

The dog whined. He liked running in his animal form just as much as Moony did.

The wolf huffed. His ears flicked back. **"Come on, Padfoot. I can talk in this form, but you can't, and I need your advice about something."**

The dog sighed one last time but popped into his other form. "Fine, Moony, you win. What can I do you for?"

"It's about Dora-"

"_Oh._"

"'Oh'?" Remus's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

"Just that it's about time you decided to make your move," Sirius declared. "I'm not blind, Remus. I can see pretty dang clearly how much you lo-"

The werewolf erupted into a coughing fit.

"Wow, Moony, that interruption wasn't hopelessly transparent at all."

"I don't require relationship advice," the red-faced lycanthrope informed him, "and even if I did, I wouldn't be stupid enough to consult you. I need to ask your advice because some of the other werewolves still want to turn her. You're good at persuading people. Do you have any suggestions? How can I make them trust her without turning her into another werewolf?"

Sirius's glee vanished. His face became serious and thoughtful, a far cry from his usual tomfoolery. "I don't think that anyone can force trust, Remus," he finally announced. "It's something that has to be earned, not ordered. All you can do is keep them from turning her and let the trust grow on its own."

The werewolf rubbed his forehead, feeling much older than his meager years. "That's what I thought you'd say and hoped you wouldn't," he groaned. "I've had similar thoughts myself."

Padfoot remained pensive. After all, Tonks was his first cousin once removed- not the closest of relationships, but the only family he had who knew he wasn't evil and wasn't evil herself. That mattered to him. "Maybe involve her more?" he suggested. "I don't know. If you had her do some spell training- not that you can make her do anything, as she's not one of your loyal new subjects-"

"Tyr's loyal subjects," Remus corrected.

Padfoot ignored him. "-then they'd probably see that she was on their side. Of course, the really paranoid ones could say that she's scouting for weaknesses by getting really, really close to you."

Remus groaned.

"I honestly don't know," the Animagus sighed. "Whatever you do- or whatever she does- can probably be seen as an attempt at betrayal and espionage. I guess you'll just have to involve Tonks more with people you trust and see what happens. They can spread the word, but who knows who'll believe them?"

"Thanks, Sirius," the werewolf said quietly. "That was surprisingly good advice. I'll have to take you up on it."

Padfoot snorted. "'Surprisingly good'?" he quoted, annoyed. "What do you mean, it's a surprise? My advice is always good!"

"Uh-huh."

"It is. Seriously."

"Could you spell that last word for me?"

"Hah-hah, very funny. But for your information, 'that last word' is spelled T-H-A-T space L-A-S-"

A pop interrupted Sirius's impromptu spelling bee. He and his half-amused, half-exasperated friend jumped nearly out of their skins. Then they relaxed. "Oh, hello, Kreacher."

The house-elf beamed. "Master will be pleased with Kreacher," he announced.

Sirius froze. Remus breathed, "You found him?"

Kreacher's expression was smug. "It was not easy, as the rat-man is good at hiding, but he could not hide from Kreacher once Kreacher looked for him. Kreacher did indeed find the filthy treacherous rat-man." The house-elf extracted a photograph from the tunic Pallas and Apollo had given him and forced him to wear. They hated to see house-elves in rags. "Here is the rat-man, Master."

With trembling hands, Sirius accepted the picture.

It was a clipping from the _Daily Prophet,_ several months old, but still young enough to give the gist of Pettigrew's location. The picture showed a large family (Sirius thought that the two oldest adults looked vaguely familiar but couldn't place them) waving from in front of a pyramid. On the shoulder of the youngest boy stood a disheveled-looking rat. The animal was skinny, its fur in patches, and, most importantly of all, it was missing one finger.

Sirius's smile became feral. "He hasn't aged well, has he, Moony?"

The werewolf's grin was positively animalistic. Something deep inside Sirius recognized a predator with a target. "No, he has not. Wonderful. That makes things even easier."

"The rat-man is with the youngest spawn of the blood traitor Weasleys."

The men's heads snapped up. "He's at Hogwarts?" Sirius yelped. He thought of Harry, deceptive Harry who used his lies to help others, Harry who had saved him from Azkaban.

The house-elf nodded, unconcerned. "Kreacher considered taking the filthy traitor to Master, but Kreacher thought that Master might want to get the beast himself. Kreacher truly does not know. Has Kreacher pleased Master?"

"Yeah," Sirius mumbled. He hadn't been listening. His brain had been whirring frantically, searching for a way to extract Pettigrew without possibly tripping a trap. He hadn't gone to the Department of Mysteries with Saysa, Tyr, and Harry-as-Pollux, but he had seen the aftermath. He didn't want to trigger another trap, especially not one that had been set within Hogwarts itself.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Dumbledore didn't know about Wormtail's Animagus form- but he didn't want to bet on it. Better safe than sorry, so he would assume that this was indeed a trap created to get him captured.

Wasn't Alexander really a Gryffindor? Yeah, that was right- he was a Gryffindor third year named Neville somethingorother. "Kreacher, do you know how old the kid is?" He placed a finger on the face of the boy holding Pettigrew.

"He is being thirteen, Master."

If Neville (or Alexander or whatever he was calling himself) could somehow capture Pettigrew without being discovered, then Dumbledore's trap would fail. But if he was seen… well, he would have a lot of questions to answer, that was for sure.

No, better to have Kreacher- and the other house-elves; they were always willing to lend a hand to 'the great Lightning Speaker's hound'- stalk the rat until he was alone, then nab the beast and bring him to Founder's Isle. Dumbledore, if he was planning something, would expect Sirius himself, not Kreacher and definitely not the other house-elves.

Sirius explained his plan to Kreacher, who nodded spastically and blathered on about his master's wisdom and cunning and foresight before popping off to grab the other elves. Sirius grinned. A weight on his shoulders lifted, dissipating into the ether.

Soon Pettigrew would be his.

* * *

><p>"I understand that rulers have difficult schedules," Blaise grumbled. "I understand that it's hard for some of the foreign ones to get over to Britain. But seriously, we have to wait until spring to see them all? That's absurd!"<p>

"Things often move slowly in political circles," Daphne reminded him.

"It's better than next spring, which is probably what Ragnok was originally aiming for," Harry admitted, "but I agree with Blaise. This is absurd. We're trying to save the world. Don't you think that a couple meetings about- about- I don't know, the cleanliness of vaults under Gringotts or a hearing about mining disputes can wait?" He slammed his fist down on a table. "Every moment we delay gives Dumbledore time to get more powerful."

"So let us do the same," Saysa interjected quietly. The humans turned to face her. "Work on your Animagus forms, strengthen the bonds between the Houses, get to know some of the local merfolk, centaurs, goblins, and whomever else you can contact. You don't have to stand still just because your primary goal has been delayed. Besides, doing those things will give you a stronger position when they finally arrive for the conference."

"I suppose," Blaise sighed. "And I suppose it gives Sirius enough time to build the meetinghouse."

"Weren't we just using the keep?" Hermione asked.

"I dunno," the Slytherin admitted. "I kind of assumed that Sirius would want to make something. He really seems to like architecture."

"Speaking of structures," Daphne cut in, "what were we going to construct?"

Blank stares.

She sighed, folded her arms. "I don't know what's coming," she announced bluntly. "All I know is that it will be a time of chaos and change. Do you really think that the Ministry of Magic can survive that?"

The group shook their heads.

"In all likelihood, we will end up in control of Wizarding Britain," she concluded. "That means that we need to create a just and sane government for the people. I would prefer to have at least an outline of that government before the meeting this spring."

All eyes turned to Harry, who winced. Why was he always the one people turned to? Oh, right- he was the Lightning Speaker, the nexus and catalyst of change. "Er, Voldemort didn't really think about that. He intended to instate the Death Eaters as feudal-style lords. Everyone would do as they said or suffer the consequences, and they would have to listen to him. Basically he wanted to be some kind of wizard king."

Saysa had grown up in an era of the monarch's absolute power. She was the only one who truly comprehended what Harry had just said. A deep shudder wracked her frame. "A just king, one like Arthur, would not be bad," she volunteered.

"But doesn't that go against the point of the revolution?" Blaise asked. "Besides, no matter how good the first king is, if his title is passed down through blood- which would automatically disqualify Muggle-borns and magical creatures, which is _not _what we want to do- there'll be a bad egg sooner or later."

"A democracy, then?" Hermione posited. "One like the Americans currently have?" She nodded. "I can do research on their magical and Muggle governments."

"And a constitution," Neville added. "Maybe we could have a draft of it ready for the meeting? Then everyone could ratify it. That's what the Americans did, right?"

"They rallied behind a Declaration of Independence," Hermione corrected. "Their Constitution came later."

Saysa coughed delicately. "What're you thinking?" Harry asked.

"Who exactly are the Americans?"

The group stared. Saysa flushed under their scrutiny. "I am over a thousand years old," she reminded them stiffly.

"In the late seventeen hundreds, a group of colonists on a continent far to the west rebelled against the Crown," Hermione explained. "They formed the United States of America, basing their government on the Iroquois League and European parliamentary practices. Their country has been a world power for the past hundred years or so." She forced a smile. "But we shouldn't be surprised you don't know that- I bet you didn't overhear lots of people talking about our country's defeat during your trips to Hogsmeade, did you?"

"I did not," she admitted, still blushing with embarrassment.

"You can help Hermione research their practices," Blaise decided. "You'll look at it through fresh eyes, while she already knows a bit about it. Two different perspectives will help."

"The rest of us should look at other forms and try to figure out ways to keep corruption out," Harry mused. "And talk to Remus about this. The Great and Almighty Beta of Britain has enough firsthand experience."

"Does the Great and Almighty Beta of Britain know that you call him that?" Blaise asked dryly.

"Of course not. But back to the point, what does everyone want to research? Just please don't say Communism, because Soviet Russia proved that doesn't work."

"Magical races," Blaise commented. "I'd like that."

"Great rulers of the past," Daphne decided. "What did they have in common? What laws did they create?"

Neville tilted his head back. "Um… takeovers?" The others stared. He shrugged helplessly. "Well, they're not going to hand us the keys to the kingdom."

Harry groaned. "That leaves me with law, I guess, unless anyone else wanted it?"

No one did; surprise, surprise.

"Figures. You lot are just fair-weather friends, you know that?" He pouted. "But I suppose it needs to be done. So, do we have a due date?"

"How about when we return from Christmas holidays?" Hermione suggested. "That's when we can write our draft."

"And write some more articles for the VV," Blaise added. "We'll be running out by then."

"So meeting adjourned?" Harry asked.

"Meeting adjourned," the others confirmed.

* * *

><p>Where was Lucius?<p>

It had taken Voldemort almost two months to journey from Albania to England. His possessed animals tended to die quickly, and the first owl he'd taken over had been no exception. It hadn't helped that he'd used the bird's body too hard, forcing it to fly too far too quickly. The animal had simply died of exhaustion, its body giving out under stress.

Well, Voldemort had grown exceedingly skilled at finding hosts over the past few years. He took the form of a squirrel and went hunting for another avian form. He'd found it in an eagle that had swooped down from the sky to devour his host body. Before being consumed, Voldemort had managed to transfer his consciousness to the bird.

The eagle had lasted a bit longer than the owl, if only because Voldemort was more careful to spare its strength. However, it had dropped dead right over some Muggle city. Its corpse had immediately been confiscated by Muggles who feared that it might be carrying some hideous, possibly communicable disease- why else would a perfectly healthy bird just die? The Dark Lord hadn't disengaged himself from the corpse- its death had been too sudden. Though he did not die (Horcruxes were handy like that), he was temporarily trapped within a rotting body. It had taken him over a week to get free.

From then on, he'd been paranoid about his host bodies. He would stay in them for no more than a day, stealing their remaining life energy when he transferred to a new form.

Another problem had struck in the middle of November: he had gone too far north. He had to go down the coast of Europe to France, where he took over the body of a seabird to cross the English Channel. He'd spoiled himself by riding on a boat instead of flying, though he snubbed the food offered to him by tourists. He had fallen far, but he was still the greatest sorcerer the world had ever seen. He would _not_ dine on Muggle bread.

The journey to Lucius's country manor had seemed short in comparison. He had come so far, gone through so much, that a couple more days passed in the blink of an eye.

Except that Malfoy Manor lay abandoned, its wards destroyed, its garden gone to seed. What had happened?

Voldemort flew up to the windows. They were grimy with dust and time. Either the house-elves hadn't been doing their jobs or something had happened to Lucius. Since he couldn't imagine his slippery friend (or his slippery friend's neat-freak wife) having mercy on the servants, he concluded that the latter hypothesis was correct.

The Dark Lord sighed heavily in a rare moment of weakness. Then he quashed his weariness. Lucius was not his only Death Eater. The Crabbes and Goyles lived nearby; it would be easy to go visit them. Actually, they might serve him better than Malfoy. Neither was particularly intelligent, but that just made them less likely to turn on him.

It took him forever to make the short flight to Goyle's home. This house had been built as an exact replica of Malfoy Manor, though it was only three-quarters the size of the original. Goyle claimed that it had been built that way due to imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. Other wizards said that the Goyle line had always been too stupid to come up with their own building plans. Voldemort personally ascribed to that theory.

Unlike Malfoy Manor, though, Goyle's house was clearly inhabited. The garden had been pruned, the windows washed. In fact, Mrs. Goyle could be seen in the kitchen, hollering orders at the family house-elf. Though not a Death Eater, she was loyal to the cause.

Voldemort released his hold on his current body. The crow collapsed, its cadaver falling to the ground. The Dark Lord ignored it, phasing through the wall into the kitchen.

Mrs. Goyle (what was her name again? He'd never bothered to remember it) didn't notice him at first. That honor belonged to the house-elf, whose eyes nearly popped out of her head. The servant realized that the red-eyed specter which had just entered their home was no mere ghost. No, it was something much stranger, much fouler.

The elf's mistress realized that her servant wasn't paying attention. She cuffed the elf across the face. The elf's body went flying- like her brother Crabbe and her husband, Mrs. Goyle was thick and bulky and strong. As the elf picked herself up, Mrs. Goyle turned to see what had disturbed them.

And froze.

"I am Lord Voldemort," the apparition rasped. He forced his spiritual form into a rough approximation of his body, focusing especially on his face.

"My lord." The witch dropped to her knees. Her forehead touched the spotless floor. In a trembling voice, she asked, "How can I serve you?"

"In many ways," Voldemort hissed. He was pleased with her prompt recognition, her immediate servility. Once he returned to power, she would be rewarded. "Fetch me your husband, and I will tell you both what you will do."

* * *

><p>I'm sorry for the wait. This went through quite a bit of editing- I didn't even have the first 2 scenes at first and had to add those. The next chapter is already with Tetsurga, though, so you don't have to worry. Oh, and it's NaNoWriMo, so that helps too. :)<p>

I'm still taking suggestions for the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Tasks. I'm also taking prompts for _Behind and Between_ (which has a new chapter of fluffy family fluff now, just so you know). If you have any questions you want answered or scenes you want to read, just let me know. Thanks to all the reviewers!

Voldemort's plan and some of the knight's cryptic-ness will be explained later on in the book.

-Antares


	11. Of Teamwork

"'_Courage is not always standing strong. Sometimes, courage is admitting to yourself that it's better to live another day, to regroup. Sometimes, courage means admitting to yourself that you're not yet good enough.'" _

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh (History of the Treaty)_, translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

A few days before Christmas break, the students of Hogwarts gathered in the Great Hall. Most of them were fairly skeptical- after all, the last task was pretty boring to watch. Why should this one be any better? Only persistent rumors that the first task had been a fluke, that this one promised to be totally awesome, dragged them out of their warm, comfy beds that morning.

They were pleasantly surprised to discover that their hopes hadn't been in vain. Four large screens much like the ones in Muggle cinemas clung to the walls in front of each table. They would obviously be used to keep an eye on the champions.

The hall was chilly, a coldness that seeped up from the stone floor and stone walls. Torches tried to beat back the cold but failed. Students huddled together for extra warmth. A few cast heating spells for themselves and their friends.

The doors opened. Dumbledore, followed by the four Heads of House, entered the room, the students, most of who had fortunately managed to warm themselves, looked up expectantly. They approached the Head Table, pulled out their chairs. The Heads sat, Dumbledore remained standing.

At the roped-off section of the Ravenclaw table which had been reserved for champions, Hermione swallowed. "Luna, I hope that they'll prove us wrong."

"I suppose you can do that. It won't change anything, though."

"I know," she sighed. "But it will make me feel better until they confirm the riddle's meaning."

Dumbledore lifted his arms. "We are gathered here today to witness our champions compete in the Hufflepuff Task. As Hufflepuff House won the first task, they may name their chains first."

Cedric Diggory, that House's unofficial leader, stood. "Sorry, Professor, but we can't do that."

The headmaster arched a silvery brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"The riddle in the stone says that we have to give you guys a hostage. We're not going to." He sat, unwilling to be moved. The other Hufflepuffs nodded, just as firm and resolute as their leader.

"I see," Dumbledore noted slowly. "Very well, then. You will be docked five points from your final score. By the time I come around to you again, please have your impediments picked out."

Sprout winced. The Hufflepuffs put their heads together. Hermione could hear their worried whispers.

"Ravenclaw, please announce who will take each of your impediments."

Penelope Clearwater rose to her feet. "Samuel Bell has volunteered to be our 'stolen, sleeping champion.'" That was a lie- he'd been pressured into it by the upper years. When Hermione had found out what they were doing, she had volunteered herself, but Bell had finally been persuaded. As the first year champion, he was the least skilled and experienced.

"Luna Lovegood won't be woken from a dream." She was dreamy enough anyways that few would notice the difference. "Hermione Granger will tremble in skittish fright. Cho Chang will know not even one word. Sadie Fawcett will become immune to mandrake's scream. John Davies will be as bat and night, and I can't at all be heard." As the eldest, she had the best grasp of silent magic.

"Very well," Dumbledore said. He clapped his hands; potions appeared on six of the champions' plates. "Please do not drink until it is time to begin. Now, Slytherin, who will be taking which burden?"

The Slytherins had chosen mostly the same age-chain format: the youngest would be the hostage, the oldest the mute. Daphne met Hermione's eyes as her potion, identical to the Ravenclaw girl's, landed on her plate. She smiled slightly, raised her glass in a toast but did not drink. Hermione lifted her own vial. _"To unity."_

"Gryffindor." A frown marred Dumbledore's wrinkled face. Mark Potter withered under his mentor's disapproving gaze. "As you did not decide beforehand who would do what, your impediments will be selected randomly. The Hufflepuffs will do the same, as they too did not decide."

Astoria Greengrass wilted. She cast a nervous glance to her older sister, who smiled reassuringly.

"Will the four hostages, the students with blue vials, please step forward."

Two first years, a second year, and Cedric Diggory stepped forward. All were stiff and tense, though the Hufflepuff tried to hide it.

"Please drink."

Diggory had swallowed his before Dumbledore had finished speaking. He staggered for a moment, lifting a hand to his head, before collapsing to the floor. A house-elf appeared, spirited him away, three more teleported in to grab the other three champions.

"The students without potions should step forward now."

The students without potions stepped forward. Cho Chang twisted her dark hair, eyes determined. They approached their Heads of House, who drew their wands and fired. The champions' eyes glazed over.

"Cho," Penelope called, "come back here."

The younger Ravenclaw, a dreamy smile plastered across her face, ambled back over to her table. Her eyelids fluttered, her head nodded. She was about to fall asleep, which was odd- the Confundus Charm usually didn't work that way. Hermione chewed her lip. _Was _this the Confundus or something else?

"Your hostages have been hidden throughout Hogwarts. You must find them and bring them back to the Great Hall. There is no time limit on this task, though speed will be rewarded. You will not have to worry about any obstacles save for the school's standard magical obstacles- the moving stairs, for example- and your teachers. If they catch you without your teammates, you will lose a point from your total score." He nodded at the screens. "However, this only counts if they catch you in person, though they will obviously be watching from here. If you manage to split up and regroup before they catch you, you will not lose your points. Be cautious, though. One point might not seem like much, but they will quickly add up." He chuckled. "Or should I say that they will subtract down?"

Cho Chang and the Gryffindor roared with raucous laughter. The Gryffindor actually slapped his knees. The curse they'd suffered had obviously done a number on their sense of humor.

"On the count of three, the champions will down their potions." Robes rustled as the students reached for their drinks.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Luna?"

Silver eyes met brown. "Just remember that I'll be here to protect you. Keep telling that to the Potion of Panic."

Hermione's lips twitched. "I'll try to remember."

"One, two…."

Hermione lifted her glass in Daphne's direction. She and the Slytherin pretended to toast before Daphne turned to Astoria. Hermione clinked her vial against Luna's.

"Three!"

Hermione drank. The Potion of Panic was cold and thick with a vaguely citrus flavor. It left an unpleasant aftertaste on the back of her tongue. The inside of her mouth felt covered in grit. Around her, other students did the same.

"Let the Hufflepuff Task begin!"

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then John Davies gasped, hands flying to his now-blind eyes. He'd known what would happen, of course, but knowing he wouldn't be able to see anything and actually losing his sight were two different things. Next to him, the now-deaf Sadie Fawcett frowned. She'd seen her friend's mouth move but hadn't heard anything. A second later, logic caught up with her: the potion had obviously done its job.

"I don't feel any different," Luna announced.

Penelope mouthed something at her. As she was now mute, Luna had to resort to lip-reading. "Why, thank you." She laid a hand across Hermione's. "Yours is the slowest, but it should be kicking in right about now."

Beneath her palm, Hermione's hand began to tremble. Luna patted it. "Oh, dear."

The world was too loud, too bright, too terrifying. How had she never noticed its true horror before? Hermione's eyes darted about, bulging almost out of their sockets. Her muscles went rigid, joints locking into place.

She was insane. Why else would she be in the domain of her enemy, the man who wanted to kill her? Blaise had Dreamed it; Dreamed that Dumbledore wanted Air dead. And there he was, the Spider himself, not more than fifty feet away. Hermione wanted nothing more than to leap to her feet, to sprint to safety. In fact, that's exactly what she would do. She would get up and run and run and never stop-

Luna gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

Hermione shuddered. She closed her eyes, bit down on her lower lip. Her hand clenched, knuckles going white.

Calm down. Calm down. It's only the potion (no it's not- Dumbledore wanted me dead even before the potion!). You're not in any _real_ danger (yes you are, you fool! He's right there!). No, no, you're safe. Dumbledore doesn't know. None of these students will hurt you (won't they? Don't they hold you in contempt, a bookworm among bookworms, a silly little girl?) And Dumbledore won't either, because he doesn't know. You're fine. Breathe in, breathe out. Good. See how nicely your deep breathing exercise is working. In, out.

As she inhaled, her ribcage pressed up against a warm, smooth shape. Her necklace, an ivory key; her Portkey.

Her escape.

For a long moment, Hermione's mind was blank. Then her intellect returned full force. She had a Portkey. She could escape the horrible, stifling, crushing, aching terror that engulfed her; she could flee to the safety of Founder's Isle where she was safe and where no one could ever find her-

"Luna." She didn't speak the words. She squeaked them.

"Yes, Hermione?"

The girl swallowed, a failed attempt to moisten her parched throat. "I need you to do me a favor." Cover me when I run, run, run-

One of the Hufflepuffs bolted towards the door. His comrades yelled at him to return, but he didn't listen. At the Gryffindor Table, Mark spoke rapidly to an older, trembling girl. Among the Slytherins, Daphne whispered to herself with closed eyes. Her fists were clenched, nails digging into her palm.

Penelope looked from the fleeing Hufflepuff to Hermione, who was ready to flee herself. The seventh year gestured at them to come on already and marched out of the hall. The rest of her group followed (though Sadie had to lead John by the hand). They crowded into the nearest classroom, where Penelope grabbed a piece of chalk and began to write.

"What favor did you want, Hermione?" asked Luna. Her voice was so low that the third year, who was less than a foot away, had to strain to hear her.

"Can you hold this for me?" One moist hand slipped beneath her hair and shirt, grabbed the cord which carried her Portkey. She forced herself to extend her arm, to release her escape (what are you doing, you idiot? That's your only way out of here! _You will die for this!_) into Luna's waiting hands. "I don't want to panic and crush it. It's a gift from my grandmother, you see. An heirloom." Hopefully the watchers in the Great Hall would fall for that. Hopefully Dumbledore would fall for that.

Silvery eyes bulged; nearly fell out of their sockets. The ivory key nearly fell, though Luna caught it at the last second. She looked from the key to the key's owner (who was now afraid for an entirely different reason) and back to the key. Her jaw tightened; her lips twitched. "Okay, Hermione. I'll look after this for you." The girl slipped it into her pocket. Her dreamy expression had returned in less than five seconds; anyone who had not seen her reaction would never have known anything had changed.

Hermione's trembling redoubled, tripled. What was _that_ about? There was no possible way that Luna knew, right? Because the prophecies had been in the Chamber of Secrets for a thousand years, guarded by a basilisk, hidden from the world…

…and known of by the centaurs, the merpeople, the goblins and Fae and veelas and dwarves, all the sentient magical creatures save for wizards and their dead. Magical creatures were the Lovegoods' specialty. So did that mean Luna _did_ know?

The Potion of Panic sensed that this fear, paranoia over exposure, was a better source to exploit than Hermione's fear of Dumbledore. She had already half-talked herself out of that fear anyways; this one was fresh and powerful, deeply rooted in her consciousness, far more difficult to dispel. It latched onto that fear, whispered noxious words into Hermione's mind. How did she know she could trust Luna? She didn't. For all she knew, the younger girl would take her newfound knowledge to Dumbledore, revealing Air's identity and dooming her companions. He would take Saysa and-

_No._ Luna was her friend. Luna wouldn't betray her- and even if she did, Dumbledore had no reason to believe Loony Lovegood. The thought of that hated nickname made Hermione wince, but she couldn't deny its truth.

Penelope clapped her hands, drawing the girls' attention. The blushing Hermione and serene-as-ever Luna returned their attention to the chalkboard.

WE NEED TO STRATEGIZE BEFORE RUNNING ALL OVER THE SCHOOL. DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY IDEA WHERE SAMUEL MIGHT BE? OR ANY IDEAS ABOUT HOW TO FIND HIM?

Cho stared blankly at the board. Apparently whatever spell she'd been hit with had affected her ability to read.

_Of course. _The thought penetrated the gray haze of Hermione's panic. _He got rid of our ability to communicate. Penelope can't talk, Cho can't read, Luna and I have other things on our minds, John is blind and Sadie is deaf. Not to mention that poor Samuel's been kidnapped. We need to truly act like a team. _

Her instincts- no, not her instincts; the Potion of Panic- cried out for her to remain silent and inconspicuous, for what did she really know about these people, anyways? She told the potion to shut up. "I think I know what's going on…."

The others (save for Sadie. Penelope wrote notes on the board for her, but it wasn't quite the same) listened intently as Hermione explained her theory. "It makes sense to me," Luna announced, "but how can we apply it to the task itself?"

Every Ravenclaw gawked at her. "Aren't you supposed to be half-asleep?!" Sadie half-asked, half-yelled. Deafness made it difficult for her to gauge her volume.

"Well, yes, but some of my best ideas have come to me in dreams." Luna smiled. "For instance, I once dreamt of-"

The awful scratching of chalk against a chalkboard interrupted her. SORRY, LUNA, BUT WE HAVE TO FOCUS, Penelope wrote. YOU CAN TELL US LATER, OKAY? BUT FOR NOW WE NEED TO FIND SAMUEL. ANY IDEAS? She underlined the last sentence several times for emphasis.

After much discussion and many discarded ideas ("No, Luna, we're not going to use heffalumps to track him down!"), the six Ravenclaws eventually decided that the best solution was also the simplest. Luna and Sadie trotted to two opposite corners, signaled they were ready. Penelope walked out to the hall, pointed her wand. Her lips moved, though, obviously, no sound came out.

They waited. Hermione shifted her weight from one foot to the other, gaze glued on Luna. The girl knew all sorts of strange things, and while most of it was nonsense, wasn't it possible that she knew of the prophecies? But if she knew, then who else might? And how could she, Hermione, know if anyone untrustworthy was in the know?

The answer was as simple as it was unsatisfactory: she didn't know, couldn't, in fact. If she wanted more information, she would have to talk with Luna, though how she could do that without raising even more suspicion was beyond her ken at the moment. The Potion of Panic made it rather difficult for her to think rationally.

"I see it!" Sadie bellowed. "It's coming from the left!" As she finished speaking, Samuel's shoelace zoomed down the corridor. Penelope caught it, grinning. She pumped her fist in silent exultation as the Ravenclaws sprinted to the place from which the shoelace had come. They were lucky this time- this hallway ended at the base of a tower. The Divination Tower, if Hermione's mental map was correct. She hadn't taken Divination- unlike Blaise, she was no Seer- but the Smoking Mirror had, and he'd described the classroom (not to mention the barmy professor) often enough.

Penelope gestured furiously at the trapdoor above their heads. She pointed at her throat, mimed speaking, and gesticulated wildly at the ceiling. Sadie was the first to interpret her fellow Ravenclaw's thrashing. "WE'RE HERE!" she screamed.

Hermione nearly leapt out of her skin. Did Sadie have to be so _loud?_ The fool girl had nearly given her a heart attack!

Thoughts of a heart attack made the Potion of Panic's effects return once again. She glanced at Luna. The girl had her Portkey, but she was such a slender thing that it would be easy to overpower her. Grab the key and-

Hermione Jane Granger, you quit that _this instant._ You will not, I repeat _not_, behave in such a pathetic and cowardly manner. It's just the potion making you irrational, that's all. That. Is. All.

She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails tore bloody welts in her palm.

The trapdoor opened. The wizards listened (except for John, who couldn't have heard a Mandrake's screams even if it was shrieking into his ear); they could hear the sound of something scraping against the floor. Moments later, a rolled-up ladder dropped to the floor. Grinning triumphantly, the six Ravenclaws ascended.

They found themselves in a stuffy room that reeked of cheap perfume. Hermione was strongly reminded of a stereotypical hippie's house: poufy chairs, beads instead of actual doors, and especially the room's inhabitant. Professor Trelawney was just as Blaise had described her: a slender woman approaching early middle age with enormous eyes that were further magnified by thick glasses. She wore loose robes of some mother-of-pearl fabric that was not at all becoming and several shawls over her shoulders.

Luna skipped forward. "Hi, Aunty," she chirped. "Is Samuel Bell here?"

_Aunty?_ The shock of Luna's words overwhelmed the Potion of Panic. Hermione gawked at the two witches, one so very young, and the other fully-grown. Yes, there was a bit of resemblance in the size of the eyes, the waifish skinniness, the chin and ears.

"Of course he is, Luna, dear," Sybil replied. She patted the girl on the head, ruffling her blond hair. "He's right this- _May the Messenger of Truth, the Owl of the Air, beware those who carry her comrades' messages of truth. Fear them, but fear not Fire's bargain_- way."

The Ravenclaws goggled at her, not entirely certain what had just happened. All they knew was that her voice had changed in the middle of the sentence, becoming deep and raspy, almost masculine. But now Trelawney was acting like nothing had happened, leading her niece (actually, the Ravenclaws would later learn that Luna was her first cousin once removed, the daughter of Sybil's cousin Xeno. But they didn't know that then) into her personal quarters to collect the sleeping Samuel Bell. "Do come and visit more often, Luna. We hardly ever get time to chat anymore."

"All right, Aunty. Thank you." Luna hugged the older witch round the middle before flouncing back to the trapdoor. "Well, sillies," she laughed, "what are you waiting for? I'm the one who's supposed to be in a waking dream, not you. Come on! If we hurry, we can get back before everybody else and win." She climbed down the ladder, humming all the while.

"Well," John mused, "Professor Dumbledore did say that we'd probably get more points by showing up early."

The others (save Cho, who was still suffering the effects of whatever curse Flitwick had cast upon her, and Luna, who had already disappeared down the trapdoor) shrugged and nodded. Their journey back to the Great Hall was an uneventful one. They did encounter Professor Moody, who smiled approvingly at them for sticking together and getting their teammate. Cho whimpered at the sight of his grin and tried to pull away. Luna just giggled. "Professor, I have a question about our assignment-"

"It can wait," Hermione declared, grabbing her friend's arm. Moody had always given her a vague sense of the willies; now that she was under the Potion of Panic's influence, the former Auror was downright monstrous. And wasn't he a close friend of Albus Dumbledore?

Fortunately, they left before Moody's presence could shatter Hermione's carefully constructed mental defenses. Why had she chosen to take the Potion of Panic instead of something nice and easy? Like John did, for example; he might be blind, but as long as he kept a hand on someone else's shoulder, he was fine. Or Luna- surely dreaminess had to be better than this. Even deluded Cho.

Oh, wait. She'd chosen to do this because she wanted to prove herself to her Housemates, to her friends, to herself. She'd willingly terrified herself just for the sake of her reputation. No wonder the old Sorting Hat had considered putting her in Gryffindor.

True to Luna's predictions, they were the first to arrive back in the Great Hall. Sadie marched over to the Head Table, to the serenely waiting Dumbledore. "We'd like the antidotes now, please," she bellowed.

The headmaster handed over six vials of potion, each color-coded (though that was rather useless for John. Sadie had to help him once again). He followed the young Ravenclaw over to her table and cast a spell at Cho.

Hermione, who had chugged down the antidote lest she faint at the headmaster's presence, felt her breath catch in her throat. She thought back to her Animagus vision, to the owl's message.

Albus Dumbledore had a wand of elder.

Reason returned, retaking the ground which fear had claimed. Hermione's thoughts raced throughout the rest of the task as she and the others awaited the last group (surprisingly, the Hufflepuffs arrived behind the Gryffindors, though only barely). The scores for the task were as follows: Ravenclaw, thirty-three points; Slytherin, twenty-nine; Gryffindor, twenty-six; Hufflepuff, twenty (it had originally been twenty-five. Then Dumbledore had reminded everyone of the five-point reduction and brought down their scores).

Hermione barely noticed the numbers. All she could think of was that she'd been given a clue, a possible key to the riddle she was destined and duty-bound to solve, but she couldn't figure it out for the life of her.

* * *

><p>It galled Kreacher to wait, but impatient as he was, even he could see the benefit of waiting until the entire school was distracted before going after the filthy-traitor-to-his-master-and-his-master's-friends-and-the-world-at-large, the rat-man Pettigrew. Fortunately, the Five of Prophecy kept excellent tabs on Hogwarts; they had informed him of the tournament's schedule and had even managed to get ahold of the tentative schedule for Quidditch matches. So, on the day of the Hufflepuff Task, he popped into Gryffindor's dorms.<p>

Master had told him about the dorms' general layout, and Alexander Chamberlain the Prince of Flowers had given him the rat-man's exact location. Hidden beneath Master's Disillusionment Charm (it wasn't as strong as that of Pollux Riddle the Lightning Speaker, the catalyst of destiny), the house-elf ascended the red-carpeted stairs into the third years' dorm.

The rat-man (man-rat?) had taken advantage of the room's emptiness to resume human form. He was engrossed in a schoolbook, unaware of the being staring at him in disgust.

Kreacher sensed that Pettigrew had erected wards, but only alarms for humans. Magical creatures wouldn't trigger any of the traitor's spells.

Good.

Baring his teeth in a terrifying smile, the house-elf pointed. Pettigrew collapsed. A minute later, both were gone.

* * *

><p>Take that, you filthy, stinking little rat! Heh heh heh, Sirius won't be pleased with you. *rubs hands together*<p>

I'm now taking suggestions for "Behind and Between," my one-shot series set in this universe; suggestions for the eventual government of the wizarding world, as I have little background with political theory; and suggestions for the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tasks. Any suggestions are greatly appreciated!

-Antares


	12. A Surprise in Diagon Alley

_The Lady's words were backed by the (grudging) agreement of a Fae ambassador: 'If you go to war with the humans now, your children will bear no little ones of their own. Wait.'"_

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh_ (_History of the Treaty)_, translated circa 1952

"Why can't I kill him again?"

Those were not words people enjoyed hearing. Especially not when the words were spoken in a very familiar, very angry voice. Especially not when the person hearing them had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there or why the other person was within fifty feet of him instead of Azkaban where he belonged.

"You know why, Padfoot."

Hope blossomed for a single painful instant. Someone else was here. That meant he might escape!

Except that, judging from the fact that another human being and Padfoot were in the same room and not attempting to murder each other (or, more likely, the stranger was not attempting to murder Padfoot, who would have struck back in self-defense), then the unknown man knew exactly what had happened. He would have no interest in helping the traitor out. The hope shriveled and died, leaving sickly panic in its place. His former friend and one of Padfoot's new friends were here. They knew. They were angry.

"Enlighten me."

"If we kill him now, we can't use him to prove your innocence. Right, Peter?"

Wormtail's eyes, beady and rat-like, opened wide. "But Sirius isn't innocent!" he cried. He knew that this escape attempt was hopeless, that there was no way the stranger would believe him, but fear incited him to try anyways. "He killed Lily and James and those poor Muggles. He tried to kill me, too!"

The man, a handsome, dark-haired wizard about their own age, snorted. "Spare me the theatrics, traitor. I know exactly who you are and what you've done. The only question yet unanswered is how long we should keep you before handing your sorry carcass over to the dementors."

It took all of Wormtail's meager self-control to not wet himself. "What choice did I have?" he wailed. "It was them or me."

"Exactly," Sirius growled, a dog straining at the end of his leash. "Them or you, Pettigrew. That was your choice. Because of you-"

The other man raised his hand, tilted his head, and stared thoughtfully at the rat Animagus. Sirius fell silent while his friend stared. There was something familiar about the stranger's face, as though Pettigrew had met a distant relative but couldn't remember who that might be. Not that it mattered whose relative this might be- he was Sirius's friend, which made him Wormtail's enemy.

"Isn't Master going to introduce Master's friend?"

Peter whipped his head around so quickly that he nearly got whiplash. What was Kreacher the house-elf doing here? Last time he'd checked, the wretched creature (pun not intended) had loathed his mistress's son. Yet here he was, bouncing on his heels, enormous eyes alight with anticipation.

Sirius smiled, a feral bearing of teeth. "You're right, Kreacher. Wherever are my manners? Kreacher, Pollux, this is Petter Pettigrew, the treacherous rat who betrayed Lily and James Potter to their deaths, murdered twelve helpless Muggles, and got me sent to Azkaban. Peter, you already know Kreacher. Say hello now!"

"Hello," the house-elf cackled.

Wormtail gulped. "Hello," he whimpered. Had Kreacher really learned the art of torture at Walburga's feet, or was that just the younger Padfoot's idea of a joke? He didn't know.

"Our other guest is Pollux Ophion Riddle."

Spots erupted in Wormtail's gaze. Blood rushed from his head, leaving him dizzy and weak.

He might not have been in human form very often in the past few years, but that didn't mean he didn't hear things. He could read the paper, had read the paper. He knew the rumors about Pollux Ophion Riddle, the Dark Lord's only son.

Pollux Ophion Riddle, who was sitting right across from him with an amused, sardonic smile on his face.

Wormtail flung himself to the floor, kissed the hem of the disgusted wizard's robes. "Mercy!" he shrieked. "Have mercy, I beg of you! I'll do anything you ask, I'll-"

"Oh, for Morgana's sake," Sirius grumbled, drawing his wand.

The other Animagus's unconscious form collapsed atop Pollux's feet.

"Has he always been like this?" the Parselmouth demanded, scooting back from the drooling body.

"Unfortunately, yes."

Pollux snorted, wondering what in the world the other Marauders had ever seen in this sniveling little man. "Charming. But after that demonstration, I don't see much point in keeping him. Do you?"

Sirius considered. He glanced longingly at Wormtail's Stunned form, sighed. "Too much temptation. I'd hex him, I just know it." He sounded like a child whose favorite toy was being taken away. "And then I'd go overboard and kill him. Like you said, we need him alive."

"You sound so disappointed."

"I am."

There was nothing much that the other wizard could say to that, so he settled for going through with their plan.

When Pettigrew woke up, it was to find himself in a large glass cage in the middle of Diagon Alley. Witches and wizards gawked at him; children too young for Hogwarts whispered in their parents' ears. And there, leaning casually against the side of the container, was Riddle himself, humming an old tune as the crowd gathered closer.

A trio of wizards in Auror robes broke off from the crowd: a thick, rather dim-looking man, a trainee with pink hair, and a strong black warlock. Riddle turned. The black man stopped in mid-step. "You!"

Riddle bowed. "It's a long story, Auror Shacklebolt," he said apologetically. "Suffice to say that I was saving the world, or at least a part of it. And as for compensation…." He withdrew a sack from his robes. Wormtail heard metal clink together as Pollux handed it over to the bemused Auror. "The legally required fine. And interest." He gestured at Wormtail. "One Peter Pettigrew, Death Eater, the reason that the Boy-Who-Lived is an orphan, a cowardly traitor who murdered twelve Muggles and sent an innocent man to Azkaban in his stead."

Gasps echoed around the plaza. Several bystanders stepped back, shielded their children.

"I've taken the liberty of dosing him with Veritaserum," Riddle continued, ignoring the peanut gallery. "And you can all see the lovely Dark Mark on his arm."

"Your father's mark," the thick Auror snapped.

Riddle's eyes flashed. "That thing is not my father. As I've repeatedly told the wizarding public, I chose this name and even this appearance to spite Voldemort."

The bystanders gasped again. A child began to cry. Several witches covered their little ones' ears, their faces white.

"But," Riddle sighed, "you probably don't believe me. I suppose there's nothing I can do to change that." He seemed quite put out by that.

"You were saying that this man is a Death Eater?" the pink-haired trainee asked, nodding at the petrified Pettigrew.

"Indeed." Riddle bowed to her, an elegant, courtly gesture. "Though as I said, he is dosed with Veritaserum. I'm sure he'd love to elaborate on all his crimes, wouldn't you, Peter?" He rose, turned. Eyes harder than diamonds hammered into the rat's soul. "Tell us how you framed Sirius Black by murdering twelve innocents."

Pettigrew had never been brave. He had only gone into Gryffindor because the hat didn't know where else to put him and had hoped that living in the house of courage and honor would teach him a lesson (it hadn't). He didn't even try to fight the potion within him, choosing instead to reveal the horrible details to the stunned, silent people. When he had finished his first tale, the story of destruction and manslaughter, the white-faced Auror whose name he still didn't know asked why he'd felt the need to get Sirius Black out of the way. That, of course, led to the sorry tale of Lily and James Potter, of the desperate Fidelius Charm Dumbledore had cast upon their home.

When he finished his story, Pollux Riddle was gone. Few noticed, though. Their attention was fixed on the rat, the filthy traitor, who had made Mark Potter an orphan.

Shacklebolt, Dawlish, and Trainee Tonks exchanged nervous glances. They had carried out the preliminary interrogation here mostly because Pollux had started it, but also to satisfy their own burning curiosity; unprofessional perhaps, yes, but quite human. Now they were beginning to regret their decision. It looked like a mob was forming. Better get Pettigrew to a holding cell quickly, then.

Harry Potter, returned to his own form and hiding under his famous Disillusionment Charm, grinned. Let's see Dumbledore try to cover this one up, shall we? If nothing else, it would be entertaining to see him try. News of this incident would spread, and the public would howl for Pettigrew's blood.

Smiling in an expression identical to that of his alter ego, the boy spun on his heel, Disapparated with a crack. He reappeared in the Forbidden Forest, not that far from Hagrid's hut. Fortunately, the gentle half-giant wasn't nearby; he was probably inside eating lunch. If he was, he had the right idea. Harry was rather hungry himself. The Parselmouth removed his Disillusionment, trotted into the castle.

Neither Blaise nor Daphne was waiting for him at the Slytherin table. He wasn't surprised. They liked to eat lunch late on weekends. Hermione was gone as well, which did surprise him. She preferred to eat earlier than their Slytherin friends. Only Neville was present, absorbed in a book at the Gryffindor table, just a few seats away from Harry's brother.

Marvelous.

Harry still didn't know what to do about Mark. On the one hand, they were brothers, twins even. Brothers stuck together through thick and thin. Just as importantly, Dumbledore had had a hand in separating them; staying apart was playing right into his hands, which Harry did _not_ want to do. But on the other hand, Mark had been a bit of a prat since he'd arrived at Hogwarts. Growing drunk on fame, he had become slightly paranoid of anyone and anything that might harm his reputation- including his pale, too-solemn Slytherin brother. There was more to their split than that- Dumbledore had somehow convinced Poppy Pomfrey that Harry had never visited his twin in the Hospital Wing (as if!), Mark had tried to murder Saysa, his new friends were gits, Snape had gleefully favored the one twin while reviling the other (at least while Mark was around. When he was absent, though, the greasy git had suffered his wrath upon Harry too), and Mark had written a load of utter tripe in his bestselling 'autobiography.'

The point was, their relationship was complicated, and Harry had no intention of forcing a confrontation with Mark unless it was on his terms and he had some hope of, if not reconciling them, then at least not making things worse.

So the question became, could he get Neville's attention without attracting Mark's? Harry briefly considered Summoning the older boy's book but quickly discarded the notion. No need for anyone to become aware that he knew such advanced magic.

A scowl fixed itself on Harry's face. What was he, a coward? Not at all. So there was no way he'd let fear of a confrontation, however potentially painful, keep him away from his friend. Shoulders squared, he approached the Gryffindor table.

Dean Thomas, one of Mark's buddies, was the first to notice Harry's arrival. He jutted the younger Potter in the side, gestured wordlessly. Harry's jaw tightened but he ignored them. He had to focus on Neville that was all.

Except, of course, Mark wouldn't let that happen.

"Come to apologize?" he demanded, arms folded across his chest. He hadn't bothered speaking silently- in fact, he was a bit louder than normal- so much of the Great Hall turned to stare. Mark was the Boy-Who-Lived, and Harry had his own reputation. Of course a clash between these two celebrities, one local, the other global, would garner unwanted attention.

"I'm afraid not," Harry replied, face carefully neutral. "I still think attacking a thousand-year-old, _how_-many-feet-long basilisk like that was insane. Did you or did you not nearly die?"

Mark sneered. With a jolt, Harry realized that his brother was beginning to resemble the pre-Azkaban version of Dudley, though fortunately the Gryffindor was not nearly as fat as their cousin had been. It wasn't anything in the features, just an ever-present expression of smug superiority, utter confidence that he was right, that he could get anything and everything he wanted. Draco Malfoy had worn that expression too, before he'd joined his mother in prison as accomplices in last January's kidnappings.

"Did I or did I not survive?"

"You did," Harry admitted, "but that doesn't change the fact-"

"Shut it," ordered Ron Weasley. "You're just jealous."

Temper flared. Before he could stop himself, Harry snapped out, "And what would I be jealous of? Certainly not his friends."

That was a mistake. Mark leapt to his feet, face red. "You take that back, Harry!"

Eyes pressed down upon him, the weight of reputation and consequences. Harry dearly wanted to give in, to apologize for insulting Mark's friends, but the eyes stopped him. He couldn't appear weak, not when his cause's position was so precarious already. Harry shook his head.

He regretted that, too, the emotion once again flooding his heart a moment too late. Great Merlin, had he really just chosen his ambitions over the baby brother he'd protected for years, the companion in their cupboard, the only human friend and playmate of his childhood? He couldn't have!

But he had.

Murmurs sounded around the Great Hall; the student anticipated a fight. They might just be right, Harry mused sadly. And he'd had such a nice morning, too.

"I'm sick of your jealousy, sick of your temper, sick of- of you!"

The words were barbs, arrows, tearing into his flesh. The barbs had an easy time getting in, hard time getting out.

"Then you should have ignored him." Neville's voice, as angry as it was unexpected. "He was only coming over here because he was looking for me." He turned his back on Mark, met Harry's gaze. "Sorry, Harry. I forgot." He grinned sheepishly, an embarrassed lamb instead of the young ram he'd been channeling, shrugged.

Harry followed his friend's lead, turned his back on Mark. The eyes no longer seemed quite so pressing. "It's fine. Think I should swipe something from the Slytherin table for the others and me?"

"Good plan. I'll help you carry it."

Hopefully they would run into Blaise and Daphne before the two Slytherins came to lunch. With them in mind, Harry grabbed a couple of extra sandwiches, piling them onto a stack of four plates. Neville helped by carrying drinks.

When they were out of eye- and earshot, the two friends relaxed. "Thanks for that, Nev," Harry said. "You're a lifesaver."

The other boy blushed. "Not really. Like I said, it was my fault."

"No, it was mine. I should've been sneakier."

"You're only saying that because you're a Slytherin. A Hufflepuff would have blamed his impatience."

Harry arched a brow. "Impatient, am I?"

"Around Mark, yeah."

Harry sighed.

Neville winced. "How'd it go?" he asked.

Normally, Harry would have made a teasing comment about how Neville really should work on his subtlety when he was trying to change the topic. That day, though, he was glad to answer- for more than one reason. "It went quite well, I think. I was a bit worried when Shacklebolt- you know, that fellow who shot at me this summer when Tyr, Saysa and I were getting the Chalice- showed up, but Tonks was there too. I think she's moving up in the Aurors' ranks, even if she does still choose to spend most of her time with the werewolves." A grin. "And by 'werewolves,' I mean 'Moony.'"

The Gryffindor laughed. "So what happened then?"

"They were with another bloke, I think his name's Dawlish, just walking out of the crowd. I made a few snarky comments, handed Shacklebolt the fine I owed for breaking into the Ministry and stealing its property, then used Pettigrew to make my escape. I suspect you'll read all about it in the Prophet tomorrow."

"How many people were there?"

Harry beamed. "Loads. There's no way Dumbledore'll be able to cover this up. He'd have to Obliviate the two hundred or so people who saw Pettigrew, go through the Minisry's records, and then hunt down everyone those aforementioned two hundred people talked to. I doubt that even he could do all that." And if he could, they might as well give up now.

"What all did he say?"

A prefect rounded the corner. Neville and Harry changed the topic to homework, only returning to their real subject of discussion when the older student was gone. They were just glad that no portraits were present (they'd heard something about a party in Violet's frame, and it looked like that rumor was true), or they'd never be able to discuss things so openly.

"He told them everything," Harry answered. "I don't think he even tried to fight the Veritaserum, he just spilled his guts about framing Padfoot, killing my parents, everything. The only thing he kept quiet about was where he's spent the past twelve years, and by now, the Aurors have hopefully gotten even that out of him."

"Since when were you so confident in the Ministry?"

"Tonks is there."

"Oh. That makes sense, then." Tonks had every reason to want her cousin's name cleared. "I think that Blaise and Daphne are in the library. She said something about last-minute research for her astronomy essay."

"Excellent. Think they know where Hermione is?"

When Neville brought their friends out of the library (they were carrying food, and Madame Pince would never let anything edible intrude on her domain), Blaise and Daphne admitted that they had no idea where Hermione was.

"Think we should go to the Ravenclaw Tower?" Harry suggested.

"Sure." Blaise shrugged. "But while we're still en route, how did it go?"

Harry grinned.

Hermione was not in Ravenclaw Tower. The group would not discover her exact location for quite some time. When they did, they would be horrified.

Upon waking up that morning, Luna had brought Hermione to the Astronomy Tower. Neither went outside into the cold air, choosing instead to remain in the heat and relative darkness of the staircase. There were no portraits nearby; ghosts (except Peeves, who wasn't exactly renowned for his subtlety) rarely lingered here. The structure of the tower did encourage echoing, but Hermione cast a silent _muffliato_ to cover their conversation. Then, hoping that the spell also covered the thunderous beating of her heart, she turned to Luna. "You wanted to speak with me?"

"Yes." For once, the typically dreamy girl was entirely present, her feet on the ground, her head out of the clouds. Her gaze was clear and penetrating, two silvery bullets. "Hermione… what is this?" The younger Ravenclaw extended her hand. There, clasped within her fingers, was a single ivory key.

"A gift from my mum," Hermione lied, knowing that Luna knew it was a lie but unable to tell the truth.

The younger girl quirked an eyebrow in response. "Are you certain?"

"…Yes."

Luna tilted back her head, considered. Her eyes were clearer than normal, bright as the moon on a midwinter night. "You always hang around with Harry, who has a lightning-shaped scar and a twin brother. That's good- all hope would be gone if he didn't have a twin. Neville is exceptionally good with plants. Daphne has a rather frosty personality at times. You hold the key to the riddle. That means Blaise must be the Smoking Mirror."

The floor beneath Hermione's feet seemed to vanish. Her head spun, the breath punched from her lungs. Blood rushed through her veins, drowning out all other noises.

And Luna just stared at her, serenity gone, eyes as clear as the night sky.

"Luna- you _can't_ tell anyone."

The other Ravenclaw handed back the key. Her hand was soft and warm against Hermione's chilled, sweaty palm. "I won't if you say please."

"Please," Hermione said. "Please, Luna, we're still in a horribly vulnerable position, especially at Hogwarts. Please don't tell anyone."

"Okay." She dimpled. "I won't tell anyone unless you let me. I won't even tell Daddy that the Lightning Speaker and his chosen four are in the year above me. He thinks you're just your grown-up selves, you know."

"What?" Hermione was almost speechless.

"Daddy knows that Pollux Riddle and his cowriters are the five, but he doesn't know you're you. I don't like keeping secrets from him, but if it's not my secret, then I have to keep it. It's just polite."

"Er-yes. But what did you mean, your father knows about the prophecies?"

"Oh, we've been friends with the Orion clan for years now," Luna explained. "Mum and Daddy met them while they were at Hogwarts. They were a bit friendlier with Mum, as she was one of the throwbacks to our Fae ancestors, than with Dad. Since Mum died, they've gotten a bit more standoffish, but she still got many of the prophecies from them."

"You're descended from the Fae?" Hermione squeaked. She really wasn't that surprised about Luna's ancestry, just Sybil Trelawney's.

"Yes. Oisin and Niamh Chinn Oir's daughter Plor na mBan is my great-great-grandmother."

"And _Trelawney?_ She's Fae-born too?"

"Oh, no. Auntie Sybil is Daddy's cousin. The Fae blood comes from Mum's side. But as fun as it is to talk about my family history, I think that you being Truth's Messenger is a bit more important."

Incredible. _Luna_ was more focused than _Hermione._ Maybe Dudley was right. Maybe the apocalypse really was nigh.

"I… suppose it is." Hermione shook her scattered thoughts out of her head. Time to focus. "Do you know Occlumency?"

"Is that anything like oneiromancy?"

"I'm afraid not, though Blaise is an amateur oneiromancer. Occlumency is a form of magic that protects the mind against psychic assault, which is called Legilimency." She already felt better- entering lecture mode had let her temporarily bypass her panic. "Before I tell you anything you haven't already deduced for yourself, I have to teach you Occlumency. It's a basic safety precaution. In fact, it would be best if you started learning it right now and practiced as hard as possible over break."

Luna blinked at her. "I don't have a lot of contact with people, Hermione. Our neighbors try to avoid us."

"Yes," Hermione sighed, "but you're not safe here at Hogwarts."

"Why not?" the girl asked, startled.

"Because Albus Dumbledore is the Spider."

Luna's face went white. She collapsed limply onto the stairs, leaned her back against the wall. "You're-you're certain?"

"Absolutely positive."

Luna shivered. "Oh. Oh, dear. That's quite bad."

Hermione sighed, sat next to her. "We know, Luna. We know."

* * *

><p><em>Tetsurga: DOOM! DOOM I tell you! Luna knows and is her regular Fae-ish self. The Spider is hemmed at all sides and the twin is a prat. Gilderoy wannabe<em>.

Oneiromancy: a form of divination in which you use dreams to tell the future.

Oisin, Niamh, and Plor are real folkloric figures. Wikipedia told me so, and if you can't trust Wiki, who can you trust?

If I don't update again before the 25th, Merry Christmas!

-Antares


	13. Of Truth and Aquavirus Maggots

_The Fae did not attend, though some claimed to have spotted a knight on a white horse watching from the shadows of the wood. This would surprise no one, for the Fae are just as deeply vested as the rest of the races._

_-Sayern nar'Hazozh_ (_The History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

"I'm sorry for figuring out your secret, Harry, Neville, Blaise, Daphne. I promise to learn Occlumency, though, and won't tell Daddy. Is there enough lunch for me too?"

Harry blinked at her, wondering what 'secret' she had figured out. He glanced questioningly at Hermione, who winced. Harry's eyes went wide. "What secret, Luna?" he demanded, heart racing in his chest.

"About the prophecies and your other selves and all of that."

"She's apparently descended from the Fae," Hermione muttered, not meeting anyone's gaze. "And her family's quite friendly with the centaurs."

"Oh, yes," Luna agreed. "I really just figured it out yesterday when Auntie Sybil gave her prophecy to Hermione. At least, I think it was to Hermione. She looked like she looked at you sometime in the prophecy, and none of the rest of you were there. I suppose she could have intended for Hermione to act as messenger to the rest of you, though."

Harry's head spun. He didn't notice Hermione's sharp look, her frown at Luna's lie. He didn't notice how Blaise closed his eyes, trying and failing to activate his Sight. He didn't notice how Neville and Daphne turned to each other, exchanging silent suggestions. All he saw was Luna Lovegood, odd, eccentric Luna Lovegood, who had somehow figured out his secret. Merlin, he could barely even call it a secret anymore! First Tyr, then Moony and Padfoot, now Luna. Who would be next, Crabbe and Goyle? Voldemort? Dumbledore?

"Are you okay, Harry?"

He didn't know.

"It's my fault, I think," Hermione mumbled, shuffling her feet.

"Oh, no." Luna shook her head. "You're not an Aquavirus Maggot, Hermione. You can't reach into my brain and rearrange my thought patterns and take away my memories. You're the opposite of an Aquavirus Maggot—you're Truth's Messenger. Is it any wonder that I learned the truth in your presence?" Her head-shaking accelerated, blond hair whipping back and forth, "It really just means that you're doing your job very well."

Harry fought back his curiosity as to what exactly Aquavirus Maggots were to ask, "How did you say you figured this out again?"

Just as she had before, Luna refrained from mentioning Hermione's Portkey. Harry might have seen the older Ravenclaw hand it over—she had no idea what he'd watched on the screens during yesterday's task; he might have been observing the Gryffindors or his own House when Hermione gave her the key—but if he had, he wasn't acting like it, and she saw no reason to remind him. He might be angry with Hermione, and that simply wouldn't do. No, better to blame Auntie Sybil, who really couldn't help spouting out prophecies every once in a while. Harry was friends with a Seer. He would understand Auntie's foibles without blaming her. "I figured it out by watching my auntie give her prophecy. I thought it was a bit strange that she would give it when one of the five wasn't present, but then I remembered that Hermione had four friends who fit the descriptions."

"Couldn't she just have spit it out during my Divination class?" Blaise whined. "That's one of the reasons I _take_ that class!"

"She can't help it," Luna pointed out. "Can you help your own visions, Blaise Zabini, Smoking Mirror?"

A groan was his only reply.

"You said that you won't tell anyone?" Daphne repeated. She stepped ahead of the boys, her body language dominant and demanding.

"I won't." Luna held out her hand. "I'll even pinky swear it."

Daphne hesitated for a moment before linking her own pinky finger with the other girl's.

"I, Luna Lovegood, do solemnly swear not to reveal the prophetic identities of Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Hermione Granger unless they or Saysa the Guardian gives me explicitly expressed permission. Is that good?"

"I suppose it depends on what 'that' is," Daphne sighed. "Is it good that another person knows? No. Am I glad that you won't voluntarily tell? Quite."

The reference to the Mind Arts snapped Neville out of his temporary stupor. "Luna, there's something called Legilimency. Dumbledore sometimes uses it to look into peoples' minds."

The girl was nodding. "Hermione told me. She's going to teach me Occlumency. I think you should teach everybody Occlumency. You should write a Better than Binns pamphlet about it."

Blaise gawked at her. "That's actually a good idea."

"Is it? Oh, goody. You might also want to change the name. Professor Binns has been getting better lately. My classmates actually stayed awake in class this week!"

"Occlumency lessons for the school," Harry repeated. His racing heart had slowed some, though it was still faster than it should be. "Blaise is right, that is a good idea. If we're sneaky enough, we can get all sorts of material to the other students, and there won't be a blame thing Dumbledore can do about it without raising some questions he doesn't want anyone to ask." The boy lifted a hand to his chin. His heart rate reverted to its normal pace. "But it might also let him know that we're onto him. Perhaps through the VV instead?"

"Yeah." Blaise, too, had calmed down. "That could be one of your columns, Harry. It'd be a nice change from all your articles about how no, really, I'm really truly honestly not Voldemort's son."

Harry scowled. "I still blame you for that."

Daphne elbowed him. "Fascinating as your ongoing argument is, I think we should focus on what Luna can contribute to the cause."

Hermione winced. Her Slytherin friend could be almost brutally Machiavellian at times. "Daphne-"

"I'm not offended," Luna assured them both. "Hm, how can I contribute? I can introduce you to my great-great-great-grandmother Niamh."

"Who?" Neville asked.

"She's a Fae, silly. Haven't you ever heard the story of Oisin?"

Neville had. His eyes bugged out. "That Oisin? The one who vanished for years and years?"

"Yes. He's still alive, or at least he was the last time I checked. You know that time flows differently in Tir na nOg."

"Do you know much about the Fae?" Daphne queried slowly. She was talking to Luna, but her gaze was riveted on Hermione's face. "Because _someone-"_ Baleful blue eyes flickered towards Blaise, who had the grace to wince "-got us into a spot of trouble with them this Halloween, and Harry got himself into trouble with them last year."

Luna went rigid, entire body shaking. "What do you mean, trouble?"

"Perhaps 'trouble' is too strong of a word," Daphne recanted. "But Hermione has been having some problems with your distant kin, and a few weeks ago Blaise roped her into performing rituals for them."

Luna placed her hands over her ears. "You shouldn't tell me this," she declared. "I don't know Occlumency yet. La la la, I can't hear you, la la la."

Daphne's face twitched, but she was forced to acknowledge that Luna had a point. If her mind was compromised, they wanted her to leak as few details as possible.

"I have the most experience with Occlumency," Harry sighed. Luna, who was still la-ing with her hands cupping her ears, didn't seem to hear him. The annoyed Parselmouth grabbed her hands, dragged them away from her head, and repeated himself. "I have the most experience with Occlumency, so I should teach you. Do you have your schedule on you?" He dropped Luna's hands to grab his wand. One Summoning Charm later, his daily planner flew into his grasp.

"No. I don't have one. I prefer spontaneity to rigidity. It's better for the soul, you know."

"Gotcha," Harry mumbled, a bit nonplussed. "But we kind of need a bit of rigidity when it comes to scheduling lessons. Otherwise we wouldn't know when to get together."

"I could help," Hermione volunteered. "We're in the same House. It would look less suspicious if we spent a bit more time together. Perhaps you and I could alternate?"

"Good plan, Hermione," Harry decided. He had the most annoying feeling that he was forgetting something, but what? Oh, right. "And Luna?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome to the team."

* * *

><p>The trial of Peter Pettigrew—and, through him, of Sirius Black—dominated the news until Christmas. The entire wizarding world was appalled, horrified, disgusted. How, they asked, could this—this—this <em>Death Eater<em> have lived so long without garnering suspicion? How had Sirius Black, the poor innocent he had framed for all sorts of crimes, gone so long without a trial? How had this happened? Had it happened to anyone else? Could they trust any of the verdicts from the last war?

Records and transcripts were opened to the public. Fudge washed his hands of the scandal, pointing out that Bagnold's administration had been responsible for Black's wrongful imprisonment and offering him a full pardon—if he showed up at the Ministry of Magic headquarters to claim it.

Sirius was, quite understandably, not entirely convinced. In an editorial letter in the _Vox Veritatis_, he wrote, _I have no doubt of Minister Fudge's sincerity, but the fact of the matter is that powerful people were behind my imprisonment. At least two of these people are still around. Until I'm officially cleared through a public trial, until my reputation is redeemed in the eyes of the British people, I can't risk turning myself in…. Peter Pettigrew's trial can serve as my own. When the Wizengamot, having heard the evidence, names me innocent, I will return. Probably. _

In all honesty, few wizards blamed him for his paranoia. The man had been imprisoned for years without a trial, without anyone even talking to him. He was innocently persecuted, unable to meet his godson (who just so happened to be Mark Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the darling of the wizarding world. That, of course, made everything ten times worse) without Aurors trying to drag him back to Azkaban for a fatal Kiss.

The Ministry of Magic was forced to set up a special room for all the Howlers sent Pettigrew's way.

At Hogwarts, Dumbledore had a similar problem. Sirius had mentioned in his editorial (in passing, of _course_) that the Supreme Mugwump had been the one to cast the Fidelius Charm which had failed to protect Lily and James. The old man was forced to admit to the press that yes, he had done such a thing, but Sirius hadn't been in Azkaban for his friends' death. He had been imprisoned due to the twelve Muggles whom Pettigrew had murdered to cover his own tracks. Most of the wizarding world accepted their leader's explanation, but the seeds of doubt had been planted in more than a few hearts.

The issue which contained Sirius's letter also held a nice little article on the history of Occlumency. Its counterpart, Legilimency, had been used by several Dark wizards throughout the ages, including Lord Voldemort and several of his followers. The article specifically cited Lucius Malfoy, who hadn't really been a Legilimens but was in no position to protest, and Bellatrix Lestrange, whose skills were genuine. If one Death Eater had escaped punishment and could use Legilimency, Pollux implied, why shouldn't there be others who had done the same? Perhaps, he cautioned, there were other Death Eaters running free who could also rummage around his readers' minds. If Malfoy had done it, what would stop the others? At the end of his piece, he informed his readers that the VV would be doing a series on basic Occlumency techniques (how to detect a Legilimency probe, side benefits of an organized mind, basic shields, and so on) and listed half a dozen books on the subject. Flourish and Blotts received so many orders for those books in the next few days (people evidently thought they would be great Christmas gifts for their relatives) that they ran out and had to order another publication.

All in all, Harry was rather proud of his little expose's effects.

Hermione restored her first rath just before break began. She should have done that in November at the first full moon but had opted instead to attend Daphne's ceremony. When the orange-eyed knight on his wild stallion had appeared, Hermione had attempted to get more information out of him. What exactly was the deal between Blaise and the Winter Queen? Why were his people so interested in her? Was there any way she could control her serpent sight while restoring the rath?

The Fae knight had just informed her that if she didn't do her share of the work next full moon, the deal was off. She wouldn't like that at all, he predicted, so she had better show up. Then he'd tossed a silvery bow at her, light and strong and sturdy, and galloped through the skies.

"You really should have known better than to expect a straight answer from him," Daphne muttered.

Hermione touched her new bow. It was rowan, the wood required for the ritual, strung with a single silvery strand of hair. It was beautiful and elegant, carved with a pattern of tiny feathers, an ancient symbol of air (not to mention their slightly more obvious association with owls).

One month later, she drew the bow back and shot. It was the first time she used her new weapon—it hadn't felt right to use something so beautiful and alien for her lessons with Firenze, but she almost had to use a Fae weapon for a Fae ritual. She squinted throughout the ceremony, afraid to look into the center of the rath. Whenever she blinked, her serpent sight would involuntarily flicker, only to be forced down again with her next blink. By the time she had completed the ritual, her eyes were dry as dust, her vision beginning to blur.

Blink.

"Ah," she said, completely unsurprised. "I thought you'd be here."

The pumpkin-eyed knight tapped his horse's neck. The beast ambled over to Hermione. This rath is strong, Truth's Messenger. Others of my kind can walk here as well.

"Others?" she echoed. "You mean that not all Fae can go through each portal?"

The fiery eyes grew sad. My people are much weakened.

"That's awful," said Hermione, and was surprised to realize that she meant it. Were the Fae dangerous? Yes. They were spiteful, capricious, and just generally unsafe, but…. They were so beautiful, so wild. There was something sad about them not being as free as they should be, even if it might just be for the best.

Safety and freedom, security and wildness; she wished with all her heart that these things were closer kindred.

You understand, the knight noted approvingly. That is well, for you are more strongly tied to our people as a whole than the other four. The Prince of Flowers belongs to dwarves and centaurs, the Smoking Mirror to veela and the house-elves who will follow this road, the Daughter of Frost to the lost selkies and the mer, the Lightning Speaker to the goblins and the hounds of God, but you are ours, and you belong to us more thoroughly than they belong to their folk. One hand, cool as moonlight, touched Hermione's hair.

She swallowed, regained her voice. "W-what do you mean?" Her head was spinning. They _belonged _to the races? Daphne belonged to the selkies _and _the mer? That shouldn't be possible—_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ claimed that selkies and the mer were one and the same. Perhaps different tribes of merpeople?

But the mer question could wait. "Could you please explain why, exactly, I belong to you?"

The inhuman knight withdrew his hand. His eyes bored into hers, two nighttime suns. Fear not Fire's bargain.

And then he was gone.

* * *

><p>Blaise waved goodbye to his friends. They waved back. Well, Harry and Neville did. Daphne and Hermione hadn't seen him, but he was quite certain that they'd have waved too if they had noticed his farewell. Then he turned his attention to someone who was decidedly not his friend.<p>

It wasn't that Blaise didn't love his mum. He did. He just didn't approve of her, trust her, or want her to get her way. He rather liked her latest husband, even if the man had forced him to sign up for choir for the second year in a row. Endymion was a naïve music-lover, not a criminal who deserved to die.

"Hello Mum, Endymion."

"I've told you, Blaise, call me Dad." Endymion forced a smile, a hint of hurt in the corner of his eyes. He was an alright bloke, his stepson reflected. A bit dim, but alright.

Anath cleared her throat. She never had been one for public displays of affection.

Endymion blushed. "Sorry, darling. I'm just so glad for you, for me, for us." Potion-induced love shone in his eyes.

"I am too," Anath lied, "but we're in public."

Blaise sighed softly. His mum always got like this just a few months before his stepfathers disappeared. He didn't have much time.

They entered the long line for the public Floo, waited in silence for their turn. Blaise forced his thoughts onto more pleasant—or at least more productive—subjects. He was quite certain that he knew the procedure down pat, but he'd copied out the relevant sections anyways and had the notes in his carry-on. All he needed was one of the older wizard's hairs (which should be pretty easy to acquire. Why would anyone lock up his comb?) and he would be set.

Dinner caused Blaise to revise his earlier estimate of Endymion's time left, and not for the better. The man had until April at the latest. With that in mind, he skipped desert ("I had too many Cauldron Cakes on the train." "Blaise, you know those things will rot your teeth." "I know, Mum, but they're just so delicious!") in favor of raiding the master bedroom.

It was almost funny, how little space Endymion's possessions took up compared to those of his wife. The man's belongings, much like the man himself, had been pushed aside in favor of the more dominant magician. However, they were a great deal more organized than Anath's possessions, so Blaise was able to find the hairbrush and take away half-dozen hairs. It was five more than he needed, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Besides, it wasn't like Endymion would notice that six of his hairs had vanished off his comb.

After he returned to his room, Blaise flicked his wand at one of the hairs. It began to shimmer softly, a sure sign that the magic was working. The boy smiled.

The next day, when the hair had stopped glowing, Blaise-as-Apollo Peverell Portkeyed with it to Founder's Isle. He'd brewed the necessary potion last week. Now all he had to do was drop the hair into it and wait. Sure enough, the potion darkened to deep, almost bloody red. The red pooled there for several minutes. Blaise's heart pounded. It was supposed to change now, wasn't it?

The red color leached away, to be replaced by an infamous mother-of-pearl sheen. Steam rose from the potion in characteristic spirals. Blaise swore as the scent of hot coco and wood fire reached his nostrils.

Amortentia. His mum had been using Amortentia, the one love potion with no antidote except time, on her spouses. He wasn't surprised, just unhappy, for how could he get Endymion away long enough for its effects to wear off? He even considered asking Saysa to Petrify him before remembering that the Petrification wouldn't let the potion leave Endymion's bloodstream.

"It would be so much easier if there were just an antidote," he grumbled.

The potion was evaporating more rapidly now, cloying the air with its scent. Very little remained in the cauldron. Blaise huffed, time for Plan B.

He let the Portkey carry him home, where, after changing back into Blaise, he made his way to the potions supply cupboard. None of the ingredients for Amortentia were present. Once again, the Slytherin was less than surprised. Of course his mum had a private stash.

Blaise almost wished he had Hermione's serpent sight. Yes, it would be horrible to be stalked by a Fae knight (especially one who seemed to think that his people OWNED her), but it would make finding his mum's secret room a lot easier. Too bad he couldn't invite her over, either, because her snaky sixth sense-

"I'm an idiot."

An hour later, the family owl winged his way off to northern Scotland and Harry Potter with a letter attached to his leg. _Dear Harry,_ it said, _would it be possible for me to borrow Sisith for a while? If it is, please just make sure to bring him to our next meeting. Thanks, Blaise._

He watched the owl go with a smile.

* * *

><p>"Gregory," grunted Mr. Goyle. "You have been honored."<p>

The dull-eyed boy perked up. "Honored?" he repeated.

"Honored," his father confirmed, but refused to say anything more until they were at the manor.

Their elf, Coco, silently greeted her masters with piping-hot tea. She had grown thinner since Gregory had left, the lines on her face more pronounced. Her arms trembled a bit as she handed them their cups, though fortunately not enough to spill anything. "The Great Master has been waiting," she told them.

Mr. Goyle nodded. "Come along, Gregory." He led his son through the elegant halls of the manor, which were even cleaner than usual. Considering the care which Coco and Hob, her husband, took while cleaning, that was saying something. Gregory followed without a word. He had long ago learned that it was pointless to ask questions. Never a curious child to begin with, his remaining wonder at the world had been quickly squashed.

The door slid open.

Gregory's jaw dropped. The thing before him (what was it? Not a hippogriff, not a flobberworm, but something like a twisted human child, big-headed and demon-faced, red-eyed and pasty-white) was the most hideous creature he'd ever seen, a true abomination.

"The Dark Lord," his father whispered, sinking to his knees. "My lord, this is my son, Gregory Goyle, Junior."

The boy followed his father's example, dropping to the floor. "My lord," he mumbled, heart pounding in fear.

If he had been looking up, he would have seen Lord Voldemort's monstrous face contort into a cruel semblance of a smile. "Rise, boy," he rasped, his voice high and horrible like nails against a blackboard. "I have a task for you."

* * *

><p>*cowers from angry readers* I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I was in England for a month, and then school started up again, and I'm just sorry. So, so sorry. The next chapter will be up faster, I promise. And speaking of next chapters, does anyone have any advice for starting a schedule for updates? Spontaneity might be good for the soul, as Luna claims, but I'm sure you guys would prefer me to update once every X days instead of randomly. And hopefully that will keep me a bit more honest as well. Again, any advice?<p>

-Antares


	14. Quiet Conversation

_Though the house-elves had opted not to attend, a great deal of the first parts of the meeting revolved around whether or not the ambassadors from the other nations should still try to represent their interests._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh_ (_The History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

For once, Harry's Christmas passed without incident. No Dursleys making him cook their meal and then locking him in the cupboard without eating any of it. No brothers ending up in the Hospital Wing of candy overdose. No break-ins to Azkaban followed by Animagus/werewolf tussles in the kitchen. Just normalcy, family, and happiness.

If Mark had been there, it would have been perfect.

No, no, he told himself. Don't think about him. What is, is, and what's the point of spending this great day moping because your brother is a prat? No point whatsoever. Christmas is supposed to bring good tidings of comfort and joy, not wistfulness and melancholy. Be grateful for what you have instead of mourning what you lack.

For the most part, Harry was successful in his efforts to remain cheerful. Only when he was left alone for more than a few minutes did he grow gloomy. Not that he was alone much. Those around him were not blind. They did their best to keep him company, to laugh and be merry.

He spent the morning on Founder's Isle with Saysa, Sirius, Dudley, and the house-elves. The Animagus had acquired a flagon of butterbeer, which he offered to the boys when the basilisk and brownies weren't looking. The cousins eagerly accepted; when the more mature adults reappeared, it was to find Harry and Dudley completely wasted. Saysa very nearly Petrified Sirius before the boys quit their act. No, they explained, we really weren't drunk. Butterbeer doesn't do that to humans. We were just funning with you, really.

Saysa was not amused.

They spent the rest of the morning engaged in a no-holds-barred snowball fight, wizards vs. elves. It took a bit of convincing, but eventually the four non-humans revealed themselves as vicious, conniving little buggers with no qualms about using their magic or (in Kreacher's case) their house-bond to hunt down their targets. The three males were forced to concede defeat.

After the snowball fight, the red-cheeked but happy group retreated to the castle for a light noon meal. The house-elves ate with the Guardian and the wizards, three species mingling together in harmony. Even better, the house-elves ate actual food, not the Elf Pellets which most British wizards fed to their slaves. They hadn't eaten Elf Pellets since arriving on Founder's Isle for the first time, and they definitely weren't going to start again on Christmas!

Especially not if Blaise-as-Apollo's theory was correct.

For a long time, the Smoking Mirror had been confused by house-elves' contented attitude towards slavery. Yes, they were socialized since birth, but even the best-trained slaves rebelled sometimes. Dobby was the only exception he could think of, so he had interviewed the elf many times in an effort to find out what made him different. The answer and its implications were chilling.

The Malfoys, like most Death Eaters, didn't believe in feeding their servants as much as they should. From a very young age, Dobby had shared his meager supply of Elf Pellets with his coworkers, feeding himself with his 'family's' leftovers. He still ate some of the standard-issued food, but not as much as others.

That in itself was fishy enough, but what happened next confirmed Blaise's nastiest suspicions. The elves on Founder's Isle ate regular food, not the pellets. As time went on, they seemed to grow more intelligent and articulate, more conscious of their own individuality, rights, and needs. They also became a bit less obsessively obedient, a bit less haughty towards leisure. Why, even Kreacher, who was still the most fanatically devoted of them all (for reasons that had very little to do with Elf Pellets and lots to do with Slytherin's Horcrux locket), had taken sick days!

So one of Blaise's projects for winter break, when he wasn't trying to save his stepfather's life, was to compile a list of Elf Pellet ingredients, including all the potions within them. He hadn't found anything yet- wizards, unlike Muggles, didn't have to disclose the ingredients in their food products- but he had the feeling that the results wouldn't be pleasant.

No, no. Harry shook the thoughts of Elf Pellets and slavery-inducing potions out of his head. It was Christmas, and he was determined to enjoy it.

When lunch was finished, he Portkeyed back to the CC to fetch Remus and the presents they'd bought. Sirius, Dudley, and Saysa retrieved their own gifts, and they spent the next two hours opening their new presents- or, in Harry's case, the presents addressed to their current form. Pollux Riddle had received a few gifts of his own from relevant political figures and a couple of the pureblood girls he'd rescued, which made Harry very happy that Daphne had suggested sending gifts to the leaders.

Harry would have liked to stay longer, but Remus had decided to hold a Christmas party for the werewolves and Aurors (who had really just been invited out of courtesy. Everyone knew that no Auror but Tonks would deign to consort with lycanthropes) and needed help with the last-minute preparations. He and his godfather transported home and got to work. Tonks had come to help, casting Enlargement Charms all over Remus's flat while Harry levitated decorations (including some mistletoe, which he made sure to point out to Tonks) into place and Remus worked on snacks.

The party itself was just as fun as that morning: laughing werewolves drinking Firewhisky and butterbeer, swapping stories and jokes. Some of them even mingled with Tonks and Harry, often to thank them for their magical contributions to the party.

_Oh, yes_, Harry thought, raising his butterbeer glass to toast St. Nick, _this is a good Christmas. I should have uneventful holidays more often. _

The day was almost over by then, the sun long dead, the stars bright and brilliant. Harry fully believed- and with good reason- that nothing weird, unnatural, or otherwise un-Christmassy would happen that day.

He really should have known better.

But in the boy's defense, while the strange event did occur in the same room as him, it wasn't centered around him. It was centered around Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks.

The werewolf and Auror had spent a great deal of time together that night, though Moony carefully avoided Tonks's attempts to lure him under the mistletoe. As the evening progressed, he couldn't help but notice that she was growing steadily more pensive, more determined. Finally the lycanthrope could stand it no longer. "What's wrong, Dora?"

She met his gaze with eyes as hard and clear as diamonds. "Remus. Promise me you'll hear me out before saying anything, okay?"

Normally, he would have objected. He believed that their relationship, such as it was, was hopeless, that a Dark creature and an officer of the law could never be together. But that night, he was a teeny bit drunk, a tiny bit high on the Christmas spirit of hope and reconciliation. Instead of protesting, he just sighed and asked, "Dora, is this really the best time to bring that up?"

"Oh, it's not that," she assured him. "I admit that that was a factor leading to… to this decision… but it's not the only one."

"What decision?"

She wagged a finger at him. "Nuh uh, wolf-boy. You need to promise to hear me out before I spill."

"Okay. I, Remus John Lupin, do hereby solemnly swear that I shall endeavor to hear Miss Nymphadora Tonks-" She swatted playfully at him. He dodged with an unrepentant grin "-out and not to interrupt her disclosure of a grand, mysterious secret. Does that suffice, or should I find a stack of Bibles?"

She pretended to think it over. "Hm… how many Bibles?"

"How many did you want?"

"Nah, I suppose your word is good enough. Probably. But can we step to someplace a bit quieter? No, no," she added, correctly interpreting the look on his face, "your virtue is safe with me. This really doesn't have everything to do with us."

"All right. I don't think that Harry would mind us talking in his room."

Just to be safe, they made their way over to the boy, who was demonstrating his Animagus transformation to a trio of children in wolf form. Pinions cawed his greeting before transforming back into a human boy.

"Harry, would you mind if we used your room for a bit of quiet conversation?" Remus kept his face blank, straight. Hopefully that would minimize the inevitable teasing.

His godson just grinned at him. "As long as 'quiet conversation' isn't a euphemism for snogging, sure." He attempted to waggle his eyebrows. The attempt failed.

"It's not," Remus assured him dryly. "Dora promised that my virtue is safe with her."

"Oh." Harry actually looked a bit disappointed. "Well, okay, then."

Thanking him, the two adults made their way into Harry's room. After the noise of the party, the chamber seemed remarkably quiet, especially once Tonks cast a couple charms. Remus smiled. His enhanced hearing needed the break; how the other werewolves could put up with all that racket he had no idea. "So what did you want to talk about?"

Tonks didn't answer right away.

"Dora?" Remus was beginning to worry. "Is something wrong?"

"Not really," she sighed. "It's just that you're not going to see sense about this, and I'm still trying to figure out the best way to phrase it." She lifted a hand to her chin. Her hair, normally bright pink, faded to plain brown. "Let's see…. Remus, your people don't trust me."

He winced. "Sirius and I have talked about that. We think that they just need time to get used to you, to realize that you're not a threat."

"I know, and I've thought about doing that. But then I realized that I'll always be an outsider with you and yours, even though I threw my lot in with yours months ago. No, Remus, don't interrupt me. They _don't _trust Aurors, and some of them never will. I don't blame them- we've been gits to you- but that puts me in a bit of a bind."

She sighed heavily, sank down into Harry's desk chair. "They don't trust me because I'm not a werewolf."

Remus's heart froze, skipped several beats. "You can't be serious."

She forced a grin, forced an attempt at humor. "That's my cousin."

"Dora-"

"I know, I know, that was horrible." Her smile faded. "But yeah, I am serious. I want you to bite me, Remus. I want to become a werewolf."

* * *

><p>Mark Potter's Christmas was just as fun as his brother's. He was at Hogwarts, of course- he loved that castle more than anyplace else- with Ron and the other Weasleys. He quite liked the Weasleys, who had proven more loyal to him than his own twin had. They were good people, good friends.<p>

Throughout the morning, he opened his mountain of presents (candy, a Broomstick Servicing Kit, a jumper from Mrs. Weasley, a couple books, two rare Chocolate Frog cards….), laughing as he offered Ron huge handfuls of sweets. In the end, the redhead managed to snag over half his friend's food and the cards, though Mark kept most of the other things for himself. He wasn't entirely certain what to do with the blow-up poster of an American Quodpot team, though, or a few of his other gifts. He settled for stashing them at the bottom of his trunk.

After that, it was time for a delicious, though not particularly nutritious, lunch before he headed off to Professor Dumbledore's office for perhaps an hour. They chatted about nothing in particular before the headmaster sent his young ward off to 'enjoy his youth.'

As Harry helped Remus set up decorations for the party, Mark and Ron explored the castle in the former's Invisibility Cloak. A family heirloom, it had been given to him for his birthday the previous summer. Like his father (or so Dumbledore claimed), Mark had usually used it to sneak food from the kitchens, much to the enjoyment of his classmates. That day, though, he was engaged in something a bit more devious: he was seeking out the Slytherin Common Room.

If he had asked Fred and George, he wouldn't have needed to stalk a random first year in green-crested robes through the halls. The fifth years would have led him there directly, without stopping in the Library or chatting with Professor Sinistra when she ran into her in the dungeon. What was the astronomy professor doing in the dungeons anyways? Mark barely refrained from tapping his foot in impatience.

Finally, the first year extricated herself from the conversation and continued onto the Slytherin Common Room. "Tinsel," she said, not bothering to lower her voice. She couldn't see anyone, had no idea that two older students had just committed her password to memory.

Ron managed to catch a glimpse of the Common Room, though Mark did not. The coast was almost clear, the redhead announced; they just had to wait a couple minutes to make sure that the girl was gone before they went into the chamber. This time, Mark let himself tap his feet. He used the tapping to count to one hundred fifty, then two hundred, just in case.

"Tinsel," Ron told the guardian. The door swung open. The Gryffindors rushed inside, swung it shut behind them. It wouldn't do for anyone to see the open door and suspect that someone had penetrated the serpents' defenses.

Wicked smiles broke out across the boys' faces. "We're in," Ron whispered.

"Way to state the obvious," Mark teased. "Now come on."

They had tricked Percy into giving them a list of the students who were staying at Hogwarts. Most Slytherins, like Harry and all of his dorm mates, had decided to go home. The little first year they'd seen was one of the few who had chosen to stay behind. However, enough students had left that ten of the fourteen rooms, including Harry's, were completely empty, and would stay that way until after the New Year.

Ron and Mark were only third years, and not particularly studious third years, at that. But inexperienced or not, they still had enough magical know-how to rig a few Dungbombs and fireworks into exploding at just the right moment. When the Slytherins came back, they'd be in for an unpleasant surprise- especially since Ron had charmed some of their blankets and mattresses. Mark took care of the pillows.

Some of the beds escaped their attack, though only because their owners had thought to ward them permanently. The others relied on recasting their enchantments every night, which was quite impractical.

The seventh room the boys entered made Mark hesitate a bit, slow down ever so slightly. His eyes flickered towards one of the beds. He tried to enchant it, was not surprised to find it permanently warded.

Harry had always been a wee bit paranoid.

The boy thought back to a Christmas gift that he'd sent, unopened, to its sender. A pang resonated through his chest. He scowled, shook it away. Harry deserved it. Harry was a prat. Harry had chosen Slytherin House over him, his own brother. So Harry deserved to get his present sent back.

The hurt in his chest faded, was replaced by anger. Mark scowled, the expression making his face almost ugly. He pushed more power into his mistletoe and dragon wand, trying to overcome his brother's protection through sheer brute force. He'd heard somewhere (he couldn't remember where, nor did he much care) that dragon wands were the strongest. Harry's had a phoenix feather, which meant that…. Actually, Mark didn't know what phoenix feather meant. All he knew was that it was less powerful than dragon heartstring, so he should be able to overpower anything cast by his brother.

The magic, though, seemed to disagree. Harry's wards remained firm, strong; no enchantment Mark cast stuck to his brother's bed or blankets, nor even his pillow. "Give me hand, will you, Ron?"

The two boys cast together, their actions perfectly in sync. Nothing. Whatever Harry had done confounded their magic.

Mark scowled. Jinxing Harry's bed had been one of their main objectives. He would show the Slytherins that not even their oh-so-impenetrable fortress was safe, that not even their oh-so-sacred leader was immune to Gryffindor's power. Harry and the Slytherin competitors for the Tournament of Houses, those were his main targets.

Funnily enough, none of the competitors' beds had been warded. Perhaps they assumed that no one would try to attack those who were carrying their House's meager honor. It had been very, very easy to hex them.

"Maybe we should get the floor," Mark suggested. "Harry's tricky, but I don't think he warded the floor beneath his bed."

He was right. Harry was not yet paranoid enough to ward the stone beneath his bed (though Mark had no doubt that this would change after New Year when the prank went off). They set a couple of particularly amusing/vicious spells into the floor, just because he'd given them so much trouble.

Then Ron's stomach growled. Mark raised an eyebrow. His friend blushed. "I'm hungry," he muttered unnecessarily.

Mark shrugged. It wasn't like they were pressed for time. "We'll come back tomorrow." He didn't mention that he was getting tired, weak. The Boy-Who-Lived was supposed to have almost-infinite magic. He wasn't supposed to get tired after a few first year level hexes.

They slipped out of the Slytherin dorms completely unseen. Slipping into an abandoned classroom, they hid Mark's cloak in his bag before continuing to supper at a leisurely pace. "What'll you do tomorrow, Mark?" Ron asked. "Well, besides that."

His friend grinned. "I dunno. Maybe I'll take that Firebolt Sirius Black sent me for a spin…." Wouldn't the other teams be shocked to see that!

Their conversation turned to Quidditch and their team, which was doing well in the unofficial tournament (they conveniently forgot that Harry had organized and conceived of the aforementioned competition). Mark was grateful for the subject change, grateful for the redhead's enthusiasm, grateful for the distraction from a Christmas package returned unopened to its sender. Just grateful in general. Even without Harry, life was good.

* * *

><p>"No." Remus's voice brooked no argument, no thought of argument. "Absolutely not."<p>

Tonks groaned. She _knew_ he'd react that way.

"Become a werewolf?" Remus's voice was growing louder, higher in pitch. "No! Not you. Do you have any idea- but you do. You've seen how they treat us. You've seen-"

"I've seen that you're cured," she snapped.

"Ah, but they don't know that." He laughed, just a bit hysterically. "They don't know that, so nothing's changed. You'll be hated, ostracized-"

Tonks stomped on his foot. The werewolf's eyes went wide; he fell silent. "Quit panicking for one bloody second and answer me a question. How do people recognize werewolves?"

"…We live here?" Remus was uncertain, hesitant, clueless as to where this might be going.

"Nope. Let me try again: how did your friends figure out that you were a werewolf back when you were going to Hogwarts?"

"They noticed me going missing every full moon," he admitted, "but I don't see how this is relevant."

Tonks grinned, a rather wolfish smile. "They saw you vanish _on the full moon._ But you guys are cured. You don't have to change on the full moon anymore. You can transform whenever you want."

Remus's jaw hung open. He made tiny little spluttering noises, unable to form a word.

"But if I'm a cured werewolf, I won't have to transform on the full moon. They won't know I'm a werewolf at all. They'll think I'm just another Auror, but you guys will know better." The wolfish grin grew wider, more pleased with herself. "And since you'll know better, the other werewolves will be able to trust me."

"Dora," he said weakly, "you don't have to-"

"Why not? As long as I wait until Tyr's back, it won't hurt. I'll have more strength, improved senses, and an ace up my sleeve in the form of a large, sharp-toothed predator. I won't suffer socially- I'll improve my relations with the pack. And…" she glanced away. Her hair fell in front of her face, masking her eyes. "… there are some other benefits that I can think of, though I'm not stupid enough to make this kind of change for a guy I haven't even dated yet."

Remus groaned. Tonks realized how it sounded. She amended, "Okay, that came out wrong, like I was trying to guilt you into dating me. I wasn't. I'm not! It's just… well, it _would _be a nice side benefit, right?" She chuckled self-deprecatingly.

"Dora…." Words failed him.

"I've thought a lot about this," she continued, reduced to babbling nervously. "Because it's a big decision to make, you know? A real lifestyle changer. But I've weighed the pros and cons, and I can't really think of a whole lot of cons. If anyone sees me change, all I have to do is show up one night on the full moon and they'll see that I'm not transforming. Problem solved. It's pretty much foolproof." She groaned softly. "Okay, maybe not foolproof, but-"

"You're certain?" Remus's words cut through her chatter.

"More certain than I've ever been in my life," she replied promptly, without hesitation. "And no offense, Remus, but I think I'd do this even if I'd never met you. I _hope _I'd do this if I'd never met you. I mean… you know the way I feel, but I'm more than just a lovesick little girl. I do have a life that doesn't center around you, you know." She chuckled. "Of course, it still centers around werewolves and Pollux's goals and the law, all of which involve you, so it's not as distant as it should be, but-"

"Dora?"

"Yes?" Oh, Merlin, were there tears in his eyes. She looked closer. There were. Aw, crud. She'd reduced him to sniffling. While she did appreciate sensitivity in a man, this was a bit embarrassing.

"Two things." He held up a hand with two fingers raised. "First thing: you talk too much."

Tonks blushed. "Yeah. I'm working on it."

"Second thing…." He cupped her chin, lifted her head to meet his gaze. His face was very, very close, closer than it had ever been. "I think Harry's been listening in on us, because _that_ wasn't here earlier."

"What?"

The two looked up. A clump of mistletoe which, just as Remus had said, had _not_ been there earlier hung innocently above them. A rather big clump, too, with huge berries and a fat red bow.

"I don't know if I should kill him or thank him," Remus chuckled. His face was still very close to hers, their noses almost touching. "What do you think I should do, Dora?"

"Thank him, then kill him," she advised. Her cheeks were red, brighter than the mistletoe's bow.

Remus grinned, years melting off his face. "Actually, I think I'll decide based on the final results of his meddling." And, that being said, he drew her in for a kiss.

An hour later, Harry was the recipient of two very, very heartfelt thanks.

* * *

><p>Because the werewolf thing was kid of inevitable, to be honest. Tonks is smart enough to see that, even if Remus was still in denial.<p>

Thanks to everybody who gave me advice about the updating schedule! I'm going to aim for an update once every three weeks. In other words, you'll see me again on Good Friday, March 29. Until then, my friends, adieu!

-Antares


	15. Unclean Control

_Even when she could not help with her words, trapped as she was in the form of a serpent whom no one could understand, the Lady of the Chamber remained present at the negotiations. Her very presence acted to cool tempers._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

Not for the first time (and probably not for the last time either, now that he thought about it), Blaise Zabini wished that he'd paid more attention to Harry's Parseltongue lessons. Or that he'd swallowed his pride and asked for private training. But no, he'd been too embarrassed to ask for help where he needed it, and now look where it got him.

"Can you slow down?" he asked Sisith, not bothering to even attempt Parseltongue. Firstly, no one but Harry and Saysa could actually make all those noises. Secondly, Blaise would doubtless mangle the other tongue's language and/or grammar. Probably both. Last, he knew that Sisith was a lot better at understanding English than the average snake.

The serpent's expression became downright patronizing as he bobbed his slender black head up and down. Was it just Blaise's imagination, or was the infernal creature moving extra slowly just to make sure he got the message? Knowing Sisith, he probably was.

"**Found it."** Sisith enunciated each word clearly and slowly, his gaze fixed on the human's face.

Blaise's breathing quickened. "You found Mum's potions room?"

Sisith nodded again.

A smile took over the young wizard's face. "Thank Merlin."

"**Thank **_**me,"**_ Sisith corrected. Blaise wasn't an expert in serpentine inflections, but even he recognized the humor in the hisses.

"All right. Thank Sisith too. But 'thank Merlin' is catchier."

Sisith made that odd snaky laugh-sound of his, making Blaise wish yet again that he was better with Parseltongue. He and Sisith could have some great conversations—or they could have if he'd been able to keep up. Maybe he'd take extra lessons from Harry after all….

"Where is it?"

"**Follow me.**"

Blaise obeyed. Sisith whipped down the corridor, around a corner. **"A passageway," **he explained, rubbing up against a wall. **"With a-" **Here he hissed something that Blaise couldn't understand but could guess at anyways.

"A password?"

"**Yes."**

"…Do I know the Parseltongue word for it?"

"**I don't know. It is-"** (unintelligible hissing).

Blaise groaned. "Do you have any synonyms?"

"**What are those?"**

"Words that mean the same thing. Or maybe you could describe what the password is?"

"**It is the name of the potion.**"

"Oh." Blaise's shoulders slumped as the tension left them. "Amortentia."

In a display reminiscent of the entrance to Diagon Alley, the bricks in the wall folded in on themselves. They rolled away, forming a small arch just barely large enough for a full-grown woman to comfortably step through. Blaise was tall for his thirteen years, but he wasn't so large that he had to stoop.

The bricks closed themselves after he and Sisith entered. Lights flickered on in each corner, illuminating a small, almost rudimentary room with a bubbling cauldron, a wooden shelf with potion-filled vials, and a cupboard that was probably filled with ingredients. The smells of hot coco and wood fire filled Blaise's nostrils. Beneath them, he could just barely catch little whiffs of something herbal, something fruity, and something with the metal tang of blood. He grimaced, nose twitching; the last scent undermined all the others, souring them like flies in honey. It was a blatant (to him, at least) reminder that sweet-smelling Amortentia was based on deception and control, not honest love.

"Best get to work," the boy muttered.

His idea for modifying the potions came from Remus Lupin. In a long-ago conversation, the werewolf had once commented that he was glad he didn't have to take the Wolfsbane Potion anymore. The concoction was absolutely foul, and adding sugar rendered it completely useless, though oddly, the addition didn't change anything about its appearance or scent. Then he had grumbled that he shouldn't really be surprised, because such complicated potions were very unstable even after their completion. They could be mixed with water, but adding any other ingredients risked ruining the entire potion.

Amortentia was not quite as complex as Wolfsbane, but it was just as vulnerable to the destabilizing forces of sugar.

Blaise poured out about a tablespoon from each vial, letting it soak into the floor. Then he added sugar until the liquid line was roughly as high as it had been before. The potions looked no different, which meant that they would fool his mother. Then, when Endymion was due for his next dose, he'd be free. Free to really _hear_ the rumors about his wife's former husbands. Free to heed Blaise's warnings. Free to get out.

And his mum would be free too. Blaise knew, intellectually at least, that Anath Zabini deserved Azkaban. She had killed and intended to kill again, drugging innocent men and stealing their fortunes to support her lifestyle. She was _not _a good person. But she was also Mum, who had been there since day one, who genuinely loved him even when she didn't know how to show it. Blaise understood that what he was doing wasn't just, wasn't as right as it could be, but Harry kept reaching out for his estranged relative too. Okay, Mark hadn't exactly murdered anyone in cold blood, but….

Blaise could no more hand his mother over to the Aurors than he could chew off his own neck. It was irrational, unjust, and just plain stupid, but he _couldn't. _And he didn't know what he would do if, like so many others, his mother ended up paying for her crimes anyways.

So he would do everything in his power to ensure that he never found out.

* * *

><p>"A toast!" cried Sirius, lifting his glass into the air. "To Moony!"<p>

"Padfoot," the werewolf groaned, but the clinking of everyone's glasses cut him off from saying anything more.

"Don't forget Tonks," the Animagus added, nodding in her direction.

"To Tonks!" Harry and Dudley cried, taking another swig of butterbeer.

"And to romance!"

"Sirius!" wailed his red-faced friend, but it was too late. Padfoot, Harry, and Dudley clanked their glasses together, laughing like idiots.

Remus muttered something about how he should enact multiple humiliating punishments upon their persons. The other males just listened with indulgent grins. "-And you, Harry! You'll be sorriest, telling these sods everything like that!"

"What can I say?" the boy chortled. "You were in my room. And don't you still owe me for the mistletoe?"

"I do," the lycanthrope grudgingly admitted. "So, Harry, what should your reward be?"

"A puppy?"

"You have one." Remus jutted a thumb at Padfoot, who squawked indignantly but was unable to mount a truly effective defense. "I think… yes, that's a good reward…." He smirked. "I think I'll reward you by not hexing you into next week for telling these two about us."

"I'd rather have another puppy, thanks."

"Tough luck, kid."

"So Tonks is gonna be a werewolf," Dudley muttered. The Muggle leaned back in his chair, lifted a hand to his chin. He looked almost like an intellectual sitting down for an evening of philosophy. Almost. He was still Dudley Dursley, after all, and there WERE limits. "Maybe-" A frown formed, "No. Never mind. When're you gonna bite her, Moony?"

Remus's smile faded. He winced slightly. Yes, Tonks had convinced him that turning her was for the best, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of deliberately causing her harm. He'd never bitten a human being in his life, and it felt downright dirty to start now. Well, not now. Later. But he knew he would do it, now. "Not until Tyr gets back. We don't want her to suffer an uncontrolled transformation. She needs to be able to drink from the Chalice right away." He would _not_ let his new girlfriend endure that. He would _not._

And not just Dora- no one would, never again. Once Tyr was back, he could ask about handing the Chalice to the goblins, seeing if they could unravel its magic. Harry had already confirmed that the Department of Mysteries had no idea what the cup's purpose might be, not that they'd really studied much of the junk they'd inherited from a long-dead Ministerial department. But the goblins were just skilled enough to figure out the enchantments on the cup, perhaps even to replicate it. And then they'd be truly, truly free.

The smile returned brighter and stronger than ever before.

* * *

><p>Less than a week later, Sirius held another butterbeer container in his hands, though in considerably more awkward circumstances. His knuckles were white, his entire bearing tense and taut. He felt… he didn't know how he felt, just that he didn't like it. Nervous, certainly, not quite afraid, he didn't- okay, he was afraid. More than afraid, he was terrified. Today was the day that would change his life for the next several years.<p>

He would much rather have been back with Moony and the boys, laughing and teasing, comfortable in one another's company.

Madame Rosmerta smiled at him. "Don't worry," she advised. "He's a good boy, as I'm sure you know. He'll be a great man one day."

Sirius smiled. "Thanks. I just wish that there wasn't a crowd of reporters outside."

When he'd sent an owl off to Mark Potter requesting a meeting, he had expected to rendezvous with his godson in a private place. He hadn't expected the story to leak to the press, for the media to surround their meeting place.

And Mark wasn't even due for another…. Sirius checked his watch, a gift from Charlus and Dorea Potter on his seventeenth birthday, and yelped a curse. Mark was due in less than five minutes! "Rosmerta, can you get another couple butterbeers? And menus. We'll need menus." He wanted everything to be perfect for this meeting.

Just over a year ago, he'd met Harry twice for the first time. As Pollux, the young Parselmouth had broken him out of Azkaban, brought him to Founder's Isle for safety and recuperation. As Harry, he had broken up a fight between a very confused dog and an equally befuddled (though slightly more enraged) werewolf. Neither meeting had been under the best of circumstances, and he was determined to do things right with the other Potter boy.

Rosmerta brought the butterbeers, her face soft with sympathy. Then she glanced up, eyes going wide. "He's here."

Sirius blanched. His head jerked towards the window. Sure enough, there he was: Mark Potter, a boy with a blend of features from each of his parents, even a bit from his Grandpa Charlus. Sirius could see the resemblance to his brother, but that resemblance was overshadowed by their different default expressions. Harry was more thoughtful, more contemplative, his bearing full of simple confidence. Mark was proud, almost arrogant, puffed up. James had been a bit like that, especially while he was younger, but he hadn't been half that bad.

The Animagus watched with bated breath as his godson- his godson, his best friend James's son, Harry's little brother, Dudley's cousin- pushed open the door. It chimed softly, announcing to Rosmerta that a customer had arrived.

Sirius swallowed hard, took a long swig of his butterbeer. He wished it was something stronger, mead or Firewhiskey.

Mark approached, eyes fixed on Sirius's face. Outside the photographers snapped pictures. Sirius blinked, his eyes hurt by the sudden flashes of light.

The boy slid into his seat. He didn't have to look around for the correct place- Sirius was the only person in the restaurant other than Madam Rosmerta, and he must have seen pictures of the man in the papers.

"Mark." Sirius smiled, water in the corner of his eyes. He realized that he should stand, pushed himself to his feet. The Animagus scurried over, hand extended. "Mark. I'm Sirius. Sirius Black, obviously." He grinned, embarrassed. "Sorry. I'm a bit- I'm a bit overwhelmed. It's not every day that I meet my godson again."

Mark accepted the hand, gave it a couple shakes. He smiled back, though not as wholeheartedly as Sirius had. "Mark Potter."

"I know." Sirius gave a nervous little chuckle. Oh, he felt like an idiot now. Where was the smooth, suave, popular young man he'd been all those years ago? Hopefully not murdered in the cells of Azkaban. "So. Mark. Is there anything you wanted to talk about?" A groan. Nope, that smooth, suave, popular young man had definitely been changed by Azkaban. "Sweet Merlin, I sound like an idiot. But I promise you, I'm not an idiot. Really."

The boy's lips quirked up. "You sure?"

Sirius grinned back. "I'm sure."

The tension should have broken up then, but it didn't. Sirius thought of Harry's silence concerning Mark, his sorrow.

"I hear that you've met Moony- Remus Lupin, I mean." Half a second after he said that, he winced. What had possessed him to let that slip? He wasn't supposed to know that Remus had done that. They weren't supposed to have been in contact with each other. No, wait- they could have been in contact with each other, just not until after Pettigrew's capture.

He scowled. "Yeah, we've met. He watches Harry over the holidays."

Sirius gulped, decided not to pursue that line of conversation.

"Okay. So… what do you think of Hogwarts?"

That was the right thing to ask. Mark instantly brightened, began babbling about Transfiguration and Charms and Professor Dumbledore. Sirius listened, occasionally making a comment or relaying a story about his own school days. It was carefully neutral conversation, the kind of thing one would discuss with one's Christmas card acquaintances.

And then Dumbledore himself showed up, breezing through the reporters (who had been taking more photographs of the famed Boy-Who-Lived and the innocent Azkaban escapee) like Moses through the Red Sea. Sirius's face went white as he hastily went through what he knew about Occlumency. He'd learned quite a bit, but had no idea if that was strong enough to hold up against the Spider's probes. With that in mind, he looked hard at his butterbeer as though fascinated by the patterns it made.

"Professor!" Mark exclaimed.

"Professor," Sirius repeated, trying to keep the despair out of his voice. The Animagus wished he could escape, but that would be too suspicious.

"Do you mind if I join you?" the headmaster asked, eyes twinkling as brightly as ever. Not that Sirius saw- he was still intent on his butterbeer. He needed a refill soon. Or maybe he could ditch the refill and ask for a Firewhiskey. No, never mind. With Dumbledore here, he couldn't risk anything getting past his already meager mental defenses.

"I don't mind," Mark exclaimed.

"Actually," Sirius interjected, "I was looking forward to meeting my godson and having a conversation with him in private before having anyone else join in." He forced a smile that he hoped looked apologetic. "Hope you understand, Professor."

"I understand." Was it Sirius's imagination, or was there a subtle undertone of menace in the headmaster's tone? Dumbledore knew that Pollux had gotten Sirius out of prison. Dumbledore knew that Pollux was his enemy. The next step wasn't exactly a great leap of logic. "However, I'm afraid that the Ministry of Magic has asked me to explain how, exactly, you escaped from Azkaban."

It was a reasonable request, so Sirius couldn't exactly say no. "Well, what's the official story? It might be right." A reasonable request on his part.

"The dementors reported that a man entered with an enormous Patronus. A powerful wizard, they said, and aided by an amulet against their kind. First he went for the Dursley child—who, unlike you, was given a trial and was justly sentenced along with his parents—and quickly came for you. They say that the man somehow Portkeyed out, despite the anti-Portkey wards."

"Actually, that's exactly what happened." Sirius was surprised. He hadn't expected the official version to be so accurate.

"Except Professor Dumbledore left out the part about your rescuer being You-Know-Who's son," Mark snarled.

Behind the bar, Rosmerta dropped a bottle of butterbeer. Mumbling an apology, she grabbed a rag, began mopping it up. It would have been faster and easier to use her wand, but she didn't want to be distracted.

"He's not," Sirius said. Anger sparked in his chest. How dare these people accuse his rescuer of serving the dark side? Never mind that he'd done so himself, once. "I've asked him. He says that his name and appearance are a bad joke that went too far."

"So you have been in contact with him since the story came out," Dumbledore observed, eyes twinkling triumphantly.

Sirius silently cursed himself. His face twitched, momentarily revealing his anger and wariness, but he forced it back under control. So that was what Dumbledore wanted, eh? And of course he'd just walked into the Spider's trap. "He sends me an owl once a month or so with reports on the hunt for Pettigrew. He was angrier than a hive of bees that the real traitor escaped."

"You are the one who told him about Pettigrew?"

"Yeah."

"Then why did he free you?" the headmaster continued. His expression remained confused, politely curious. Mark would think nothing of it. Only Sirius knew how sharply Dumbledore was dissecting his every word, his expressions, even his body language.

"I have no idea," the Animagus lied. "I didn't want to look a gift Pegasus in the mouth, so I never asked. Have you considered owling him?"

Something flickered in Dumbledore's eyes, something unsettling. Sirius's hair stood on end. "I've tried, yes," the headmaster admitted, "but he's never responded. Next time you owl him, could you ask? And I'd appreciate it if you asked about Dudley's whereabouts as well."

Fortunately, Sirius knew exactly how to wiggle out of this one. "All right," he said, "but I can't guarantee that he'll answer. He's a bit closemouthed about some things."

Rosmerta finally finished mopping up the butterbeer. She ambled over to the table. "Anything to drink, Headmaster?"

"A butterbeer, please. It's too early for anything harder."

Sirius took advantage of the interruption to change the subject. "I hear you're a champion in the Tournament of Houses. How's that going?"

Mark was a veritable well of information on that, which was good. Sirius didn't want to give Dumbledore another chance to cut in, return the subject to Pollux Ophion Riddle. Even better, it gave the Animagus an excuse to keep his eyes on Mark, away from the Legilimens. By the time his godson had finished complaining about Gryffindor's horrible performance in the first task, it was time for Sirius to leave. Smiling, apologizing profusely, he made his way to the door.

And was hit in the back by the Imperius Curse.

Warm-happy-safe-good place. He liked it there, floating in the nothingness, supported by waves of light. It was so nice, so very nice. And the niceness would continue if he just spied on Pollux for a while for the wonderful Professor Dumbledore. It would keep on—

Sirius whimpered. The light wavered ever so slightly. No, no, he was being silly. Of course he could trust Professor Dumbledore and do as he said. Of course he should betray Pollux. Betray Pollux. Betray Harry? No, that wasn't his order. But Pollux was Harry. Pollux wasn't real. How could he betray someone who wasn't real? And he couldn't betray Harry, Lily and James's son, because he loved Harry and he hadn't been told to spy on him. Only Pollux.

Sirius's thoughts could have looped like that for a while if he hadn't glimpsed Mark's face one last time before Disapparating. Mark, Harry's brother; the Castor to Harry's Pollux.

He stumbled as he landed on Founder's Isle, fell face-first into the rock. He'd almost done it. He'd almost become a spy, a traitor, a Wormtail. He'd almost handed his friends over to their deaths.

Sirius retched. The butterbeer he'd consumed spilled across the rock, nearly hitting his shoes as it spewed from his mouth.

He had…. Good Merlin. He threw up again, again, his body trembling with leftover nerves and horror, cold sweat breaking out across his hairline. He'd almost handed Harry Potter, James's firstborn, to his death. Mark's brother—his godson's brother. His friend. Not to mention the guy who was apparently destined in prophecy to save the world.

Finally Sirius found that he couldn't vomit anymore. He still felt dirty, violated. It was like the spell had seeped into the folds of his brain, like it had stained him. Something inside him shuddered. He wondered if he'd ever feel clean again.

And then he thought of Saysa, who had been hurt like this not once but several times. First by Tom Riddle's domination, then Dumbledore's Imperius Curse, which made her attack Mark. Each of her episodes had been longer, and in most cases, she'd been forced to do the distasteful thing her foul 'master' commanded. Hermione had taken care of some of that, but he knew that the basilisk was still haunted by her memories. Now that he'd experienced a much, much lesser form of mind control (even now, with the ugly spell's tentacles clinging to his brain, he knew that Saysa had had it much worse. And he shuddered to think of what _worse_ would feel like), he felt like he should go talk with her, go help and be helped.

Besides, someone had to know about Dumbledore's assassination attempt.

Obviously (because it really did go without saying), Saysa was horrified by what had happened. Not so obviously, she reacted to her horror by reverting to her basilisk form. Apparently the shock and fear triggered a latent survival instinct in the reverse Animagus. Fortunately, Sirius had some pretty good survival instincts of his own. He closed his eyes and flung himself backwards when Saysa's arms fused to her sides.

"Saysa?" he called, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. "Are you okay?"

A hiss that sounded like a sigh was his only response. Scales rustled, stone creaked as a great weight shifted. "My apologies, Sirius," the glum serpent-woman said.

"I don't blame you." Padfoot shuddered. He looked sideways at the poor basilisk. Her hair drooped in front of her face, hiding her expression, but if she felt anything like he had…. "I'm tempted to make the change myself and curl up in a corner somewhere. _Are _you okay? No… stupid question. Will you be okay?" A groan. "Another stupid question. What I'm trying to say is: how can I help?"

Saysa pulled herself together with a visible effort, brushing the dark hair from her golden eyes. In a clipped, businesslike tone, she stated, "We will obviously need to tell the five about this, Tyr as well; perhaps the goblins. Sirius, would you be willing to donate a Pensieve memory of the… attack?"

"Of course." He too was glad of the almost-change of topic. It still addressed the issue, but it was productive. He was doing something other than focusing on the horror of something invading his mind, of tentacles and slime like the dementors of Azkaban. "But do you think that my memory is enough to show what really happened? Most of the… the Imperius Curse… it took place mostly inside my head. He didn't deliver orders to me aloud or anything, and he was too smart to cast the curse out loud when he… when he hit me." The Animagus took a deep breath, swallowed. When he resumed his speech, he hesitated no more. "Though I suppose that with the rest of the evidence you have gathered, we'll have more than enough to convince everyone that Dumbledore is really the Spider."

That was one of Harry's worst fears. Dumbledore had made a name for himself as a champion of the underdog, lover of Muggles and magical creatures. He'd hired a half-giant, headed the Order of the Phoenix. How could anyone like that be less than perfect? So it was a very legitimate concern that the leaders of the nations, not to mention their subjects, would doubt that their champion and friend could possibly be their most dangerous enemy.

And so they planned, and plotted, and gathered evidence. They didn't have to meet with the other races until spring, a meeting that was still a few months away. But when they did meet with them, they had to convince everyone of the Spider's identity right away. Otherwise…. Well, Rowena Ravenclaw put it best in her _Book of Hope and Despair: _

_Break the Spider's web of lies,  
>when royals meet on Founder's Isle.<br>Reveal his face, give the Bee's name,  
>and pray that all believe.<br>You cannot know the truth entire,  
>for that riddle is still unsolved,<br>but if the clans believe you not,  
>weep, o weep ye with<em> despair.

* * *

><p>I know, I know, Blaise's plan isn't the best. It's based on canon principles (sugar really does mess up Wolfsbane), but Blaise has forgotten to take into account that Endymion might need a bit more help than simple freedom. Or maybe he knows Endymion better than we do and realizes that nope, he just needs to be free before he can do anything.<p>

Next update: 3 weeks from today, April 19.

Happy Easter!

-Antares


	16. Lugga-lugga Bites

_The Lady of the Chamber believed that all the races, even the distant Fae, would contribute to her Lightning Speaker's cause._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

The Ravenclaw team had scheduled their first meeting of January for their ride on the Hogwarts Express, one of the few times that they knew their schedules lined up. Hermione, upon arriving, spent a few minutes talking with Harry and the others before boarding the train and searching for her fellow champions. She found Luna and Penelope awkwardly sharing an almost-empty compartment. The younger girl was contentedly perusing a copy of her father's magazine; the older had taken out a Muggle thriller. The former was so absorbed in her work that she didn't even notice Hermione's entrance; the latter glanced up every minute or so and displayed visible relief when she saw that someone had arrived who could act as a shield between her and Loony Lovegood. Luna's prestige in Ravenclaw had risen a bit since the second task, but she was still rightfully considered an oddball.

Hermione had asked her about that, whether or not it hurt. Luna had just commented that as long as no one was hurting her, she didn't particularly care what they thought. It had actually made Hermione a bit jealous—what she would have _given_ for that serenity back in primary school.

Not surprisingly, the conversation quickly degenerated into a who's-studied-the-most competition. The Ravenclaw task was next, and though they didn't know what it would be, it didn't take a genius to figure out that the challenge would rely a lot on intelligence and learning. That meant that the Ravenclaws had, for the most part, spent their holidays in a frenzy of books and spells, mumbling trivia and creating flashcards and studying as hard as they could.

Luna and Hermione had been just as absorbed in their studies as the others, but they'd had an extra challenge to hurdle. Luna had seen the break from school as a break from Dumbledore, the best chance she had to learn Occlumency before it was too late. Her mental shields had progressed at a phenomenal rate, leaving her teachers Hermione and Harry astonished. They weren't sure if it was the girl's Fae heritage or just something about the way her mind worked, but she was incredibly difficult to probe.

Harry estimated that the second year would surpass even him (and by extension Voldemort himself) by the end of February. Then he'd started mumbling about the implications of that and whether or not he could integrate his extra memories into his own shields. No one would expect him to have two sets of recollections, just like no one would expect to find a downright Cretan Labyrinth in Luna's head.

Leaning back in her chair, Hermione let her smile fade away. She had a feeling of…she didn't know what. Fear, certainly. Dread, but also anticipation, expectation. She knew in her bones that within the next few months, something would have been fundamentally changed.

The girl shook herself. Of course something would change. Their meeting with the ambassadors was scheduled for the middle of April. That meeting would make or break them. But try as she might, Hermione could not convince herself that the meeting was the only thing which would change.

_Stop it_, she told herself. _You're not a Seer. You can't see the future. It's just silly to feel this awful foreboding…. _

But thoughts of Blaise led to thoughts of his chilling prophecies, the raven and phoenix in the desert. His inexplicable urge to bargain with the Fae. And Trelawney had predicted it too, had said that Dumbledore would soon make his move against Air, against Hermione.

The Ravenclaw clenched her fists. Her palms, damp with sweat, were broken open by short nails.

Perhaps her feeling of foreboding wasn't so foolish after all.

But, Hermione reassured herself, she might get some answers tomorrow night beneath the full moon and sunset light. At the very least she'd be able to ask her questions, to articulate her fears. Perhaps this time the pumpkin-eyed knight would be inclined to answer her. If not, she had another plan.

The conversation around her degenerated into speculation as to the nature of the next task, as all conversations between champions (and most of the rest of the school, to be honest) inevitably did. As usual, the Ravenclaws made no progress: they had received no new hints, no clues as to what was going on. It made them rather sulky. Ravenclaws to the bone despised nothing more than not knowing.

By the time the Hogwarts Express reached Hogsmeade, Hermione's dread had returned full force. She felt like she'd downed another Potion of Panic. Her thoughts pounded against her skull like butterflies against a net. What if Dumbledore had learned the truth? What if he knew who she was, who her friends were? What if he had found or was about to find Founder's Isle? What had he been up to over break? Did he know that his attempt to Imperius Sirius had failed? Surely he must. But if he knew that the plan had failed, how would he respond?

Yes, that was the crux of the matter: _what was their enemy planning?_

Dinner was a nightmare. She could hardly force the food down, which made her worry about looking suspicious, which made her ache to glance up at the teachers' table and see if a pair of twinkling blue eyes were watching her. But indulging that urge every five seconds would be too suspicious, would make Dumbledore realize that something was up if he hadn't already figured that out. The effort Hermione expended not looking caused her hands to twitch.

"Poor Hermione," sighed Luna, patting her on the shoulder. "You've been bitten by a lugga-lugga over break."

Fear made her snappish. "I think I'd remember that, Luna." She regretted her tone instantly. "I'm sorry."

"I know." A small hand squeezed her shoulder. "Lugga-lugga bites often make the sufferer say things she doesn't mean. They also cause completely irrational paranoia."

Hermione thought of one of her father's favorite sayings: It's not paranoia if they're really after you.

"_Completely_ irrational," Luna repeated.

"Of course." Despite herself, Hermione smiled. Not a wide smile, actually rather small and sickly, but it was enough to banish some of the nervousness lingering in her gut. She managed to eat after that, though still not much. A pity—the meal, mashed potatoes and pork roast, was one of her favorites.

The simple act of eating calmed her further. It was proof that she was alive, that she would go on, that she had to prepare for her future. Her fluttering heart slowed until its beat was strong and steady.

Luna beamed at her. "See? I told Daddy that potatoes were a good antidote for lugga-lugga bites, but he didn't believe me. How silly of him."

"Quite," Hermione agreed. "But I wonder why that is?"

"I have no idea," the younger girl confessed.

They spent the rest of the meal discussing everything they knew about potatoes. The girl across from them, a mousy-looking fifth year named Delilah, joined in their conversation when they started exchanging potato-themed recipes. The conversation was simple and mind-numbingly ordinary, and it banished the last of the fear from Hermione's system. It was, she noted wryly, rather difficult to feel afraid whilst discussing various ways of cooking the common spud.

She almost wished that they could keep talking about food, about cooking, about anything safe and open and honest, but duty called. Supper ended, even the deserts called back to the kitchens, and the students rose. It was time for the weary students to go to bed.

Well, most of the weary students.

Hermione and Luna slipped away from the crowd. The two girls made a beeline for an abandoned classroom, one of the many that Hogwarts's pupils had used for centuries for secret confidences.

A few spells later, the girls didn't have to worry about eavesdroppers. Hermione settled herself in a chair; Luna sat on the floor. Her silvery eyes were even larger than normal, bulging a bit with excitement. Harry and the others weren't there yet, but that was all right. Hermione was more than capable of explaining almost everything on her own.

And explain she did. She started with the tale of her first year, how, after discovering that Hagrid planned to raise a _fire-breathing dragon_ in his _wooden _hut, she had been introduced to Slytherin's not-so-monstrous Monster herself. The Ravenclaw freely admitted her initial terror (Luna patted her on the back and assured her that she understood. Banshees had been spreading nasty rumors about the Lady for centuries), her reluctance to go back, her relief when Harry told her that Slytherin had been Muggle-born himself and therefore had no interest in killing anyone based on blood purity.

That was when Neville, who had arrived a few minutes ago, took over. He explained the circumstances of his own first meeting with Saysa, his confusion and pleasant surprise, before trailing off into silence. The next part was Harry's to tell, but their leader wasn't there yet. "Harry said he'd be here, right?"

"They all did," Hermione confirmed. She glanced at the door, but there was no sign of the three missing Slytherins. Fear clenched her gut. She rose to her feet. "Do you think something's happened?"

"Probably not," Neville answered. "They were going to sneak out after settling in, remember? I bet it's just taking them longer than they expected to unpack, that's all."

"All three of them?"

A frown creased Neville's brow. "Maybe they decided to all come down together?"

"Oh dear." Luna wrung her hands together. "I'm a bit worried about them. Are you worried, Hermione, Neville?"

"A bit," the older Ravenclaw confessed. She felt a bit sick. "Neville, the Marauder's Map is back on Founder's Isle, right?"

"Right. Padfoot's making a version for the island, remember? And I think he wanted to add the Chamber of Secrets to the original too."

Hermione nodded, biting her lip. "Should we go check on them?"

"There haven't been any explosions."

"Sorry?"

Luna beamed. "There haven't been any explosions," she repeated.

Hermione glanced at Neville, who looked just as confused as she felt. The Gryffindor shrugged. _She's closer to you,_ he seemed to say. _You ask her._

"Why would there be explosions?" Hermione dutifully queried.

"No, there weren't." Luna shook her head, blond locks rippling. "And there shouldn't be. If the Spider had gone after the Speaker, there would have been explosions. We'd have heard them, we're close enough to the Slytherin Common Room that we would have. Or we would have heard the screaming when people who heard the explosions heard the explosions. But since it's been so quiet, Harry and Blaise and Daphne are perfectly all right." Her head bobbed up and down, up and down. "So what happened next?"

Hermione and Neville exchanged nervous glances. That... actually made quite a lot of sense.

"Harry can tell it in more detail, but to make a long story short, he got the Sorcerer's Stone…."

The Slytherins still hadn't arrived by the time Hermione and Neville finished their tale. On the plus side, though, there still hadn't been any explosions. Or screams. Of course, those might have been taken care of by some kind of muffling spell….

"Should we go looking for them now?" Neville wondered.

Hermione wanted desperately to say yes. She wanted to sprint down to Slytherin territory, burst through the door, and hunt down her friends. She wanted to find them safe and sound and ready to be scolded for worrying her like this. But she'd spent enough time keeping secrets that she realized how unwise such a course of action would be. If something was wrong—if her foreboding had been prophetic, if Dumbledore knew—then they might be walking into a trap.

"I'll go to Founder's Isle," she said. "For the Map." She reached for the key that always hung around her neck. The ivory was cool and dry, a stark contrast to her hot, sweaty hand. "_Ad Insulam Fundatorum._"

The island was dark, but a quick _lumos_ fixed that. Hermione, now wearing the form of Pallas Dhar (she took it by instinct whenever she arrived on Founder's Isle), scurried towards Sirius's cottage. Her heart thudded in her ears, the only noise on the quiet island until the sharp rap of her knuckles against wood shattered the silence.

"Coming!" Dudley's voice called. Hermione-as-Pallas heard footfalls, a youth jogging towards the door. Then the footsteps stopped, and Pallas leaned forward as Dudley opened the door. He blinked owlishly at her. "What're you doing here?" A blush. "Not that you shouldn't be here. It's just weird. You don't—you don't normally come here at night."

The Ravenclaw let herself smile at him. "I know, and I'm sorry if I woke you up."

"You didn't."

"Who's there?" Sirius's voice shouted.

"It's Pallas Dhar!" Dudley hollered back.

"Pallas?" Sirius rounded the corner, one eyebrow lifted. "What're you doing here?"

"May I take a quick look at the Marauder's Map, please?"

Sirius flicked his wand. Moments later, a scrap of parchment whizzed into his hands. "Sure. Come in though. It's cold out there."

Pallas stepped inside. As Sirius had said, it was indeed cold outside, as it usually was during January in the Hebrides. The cottage, though, was toasty and cozy, both a house and a home. She strode across the room.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

Hermione's eyes made their way to the Slytherin dorms. To her surprise and relief, she found Daphne's dot right away; Harry's and Blaise's were nearby. The Ravenclaw released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her friends were surrounded by other students. The Slytherins had gathered in the middle of the Common Room, surrounding a dot labeled Horace Slughorn.

Her heart slowed as a small smile graced her face. A House meeting, an unexpected House meeting had delayed them that was all. But just to be safe, she turned her gaze to Dumbledore's office. There he was, the Spider himself, sitting at his desk with Fawkes nearby. The last of the tension drained out of Hermione's shoulders.

"Thank you," she breathed.

"What's going on?" Sirius asked.

Pallas became acutely aware of Dudley's curious gaze. Her friends' secrets might be wearing thinner by the day, but that was no excuse to start telling the truth to everyone she encountered. So she lied. Well, technically it was the truth, but it still felt, still tasted like a lie. "We had reason to believe that the Spider was up to no good, but he is in his office. We were wrong." A tight smile formed. "Fortunately. I'm just getting paranoid. I'm sorry for bothering you."

Sirius's face lined with worry. "Has he been active lately? I mean, after what he—after he tried to Imperius me." The Animagus's voice was tight, though he forced a smile onto his lips, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"No. Like I said, I was just being paranoid."

"Nuh-uh." Dudley shook his head. "What's that saying?"

Pallas thought of her family, then of Dudley's family locked away in Azkaban. Sirius might have been legally free, but Dudley was not, possibly never would be. Had he been a rotten bully, a thug and a brute too spoiled and entitled to realize what he was doing was wrong? Yes. Dudley himself admitted it. But he was a child, and few children deserved to be tossed to the dementors. Yet that was what would happen to him if he were captured by unfriendly wizards: he'd be thrown back into a higher-security cell, possibly with a special guard that would prevent his too-loyal cousin from coming for him again.

"You're not paranoid if they're really after you. That is the saying." She didn't give voice to the thought pounding through her skull: none of us are paranoid. We can pretend all we want, laugh about it until tears prick our eyes, but none of us are paranoid. Not while they're after us. "Good night."

It wouldn't be a good night, she knew. Both the Animagus and his Muggle ward would have nightmares, but what could she do? She hesitated at the threshold, paused. "Sirius. Dudley. Dumbledore is in his office. He doesn't know about Founder's Isle. Neither do the dementors."

Dudley flinched.

"We know," Sirius mumbled.

Pallas nodded slowly. "I know you know. I'm just… just reminding you." She clutched her key, the only article of clothing which had made the transformation with her. Pallas never wore the robes of a Ravenclaw schoolgirl; she was dressed in simple, loose-cut robes of dove gray. No one was entirely certain where their Fae form's first outfits had come from, but they were real clothing. They didn't know where their school clothing went, either. Probably to the same place where Animagus forms were kept. "Good night again." Then, to the key, "Bring me back."

The ancient magic, spun by the Founders themselves, cut through Hogwarts's wards like a knife through warm butter. She landed in the same empty classroom whence she had departed. Neville and Luna jumped at her entrance. The Gryffindor settled down with a sheepish grin, hand loosening around his wand. Luna simply stared. "So that's what the illusion looks like," she observed. "It's very thorough."

"The Winter Queen did a good job," Hermione acknowledged, switching back to her usual form. She wondered what the glamors looked like to Oisin's descendent.

"She did," Luna agreed.

"What happened?" Neville asked.

"It looks like the Slytherins have been called together for some kind of all-House meeting," Hermione explained. Tension drained from her shoulders. She'd known it before, but saying it made it more real, more concrete. "Everyone is gathered around Professor Slughorn in the Common Room. Dumbledore isn't there. He's in his office."

Neville smiled. His wand slid back into his pocket. "Oh. Good. I wonder what the meeting is about."

"Probably the Tournament," Luna declared.

"The entire House?"

"Why not?"

"Good point," Neville admitted. "But I suppose we'll just have to ask about it in the morning."

"If Hermione can wait that long before learning something," Luna teased.

Relief made the older Ravenclaw a bit silly. She playfully pushed the younger girl's shoulder. "Of course I can."

Neville, grinning, shook his head. Hermione mock-pouted.

She slept well that night, untroubled by dreams. She'd been wrong about the Slytherins; her awful sense of foreboding had not been fulfilled.

At breakfast, though, it became painfully obvious that the Slytherins had not been discussing the Tournament of Houses—or, if they had, the discussion had kept them up all night. The green and silver table's inhabitants were dead on their feet, their faces pale, their eyes underscored by dark bags. Hermione took one look at them and made a beeline for Daphne. "What happened?"

"Someone pranked the beds," the other girl grumbled. She was in a bit better condition than the others, her hair neatly combed instead of tangled, but she was still obviously exhausted. "There were Dungbombs everywhere, and fireworks, and one of my teammates ended up in the Hospital Wing with his hair burned off and no eyebrows. Whoever it was jinxed the beds so that when someone sat down on them, all the Dungbombs and fireworks would go off at once. A few of the beds, the ones belonging to Champions, had other enchantments." Her lips thinned. "Fortunately, none of the Bed-Wetting Curses were triggered."

"And you don't know who did it?" Hermione gasped.

Daphne sighed, lowered her gaze. "I have my suspicions," she confessed, too quiet for anyone else to hear her in the noisy Great Hall. "Harry wards his bed. Most of the warded beds were ignored, but the saboteur or saboteurs went to extra lengths to get to Harry. They put a Bug-Attracting Charm on the floor beneath his mattress as well as enough Dungbombs to evacuate a battlefield."

In Hermione's opinion, even one Dungbomb was enough to evacuate a battlefield. Those things _smelled_. But she knew better than to say so. She glanced over at Mark, who was talking with his Gryffindor friends. They beamed at him, laughing uproariously whenever he made a particularly striking gesticulation.

"Poor Harry."

Daphne sighed. "I know."

* * *

><p>Sorry it's so late in the day! But (at least in my time zone) it's still April 19. I'm not technically late!<p>

Next up: Hermione confronts the knight and (maybe) we see the next Task. Maybe. You'll know for sure on May 10. Until then, adieu!

-Antares


	17. Autumn Eyes

_The Fae are the strangest of the races (though many consider house-elves a close second)._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh, _(_History of the Treaty), _translated circa 1952

"You're fretting, Hermione. Were you bitten by another lugga-lugga?"

The girl shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Those only cause irrational paranoia, right? I don't think that this is irrational."

A cool hand closed over hers. "Yes it is," Luna disagreed. "I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you.'

Hermione couldn't help but smile a bit. "Thank you." She doubted that Luna could do anything about her out-of-control serpent sight, which she just _knew_ would flare up when she performed the ritual, but it still felt good to have someone at her back.

"Fear not Fire's bargain," Luna reminded her. "Remember what Auntie Sybil said? Blaise is Fire, and she was talking to you. That means that nothing bad will happen to you when you're bringing back the raths. You'll be safe."

That actually did make her feel better. She relaxed, tension flowing out her shoulders. "Thank you, Luna. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Oh, you would get by, I'm sure."

"I'm not."

Luna giggled. "You're so nice, Hermione. Oh, look. The sun is going down."

"You're right." Hermione nodded. "I had better get started." She strung the single silver hair that made up the string of her feather-carved bow, a… she wasn't sure if it was quite a gift, as the Fae clearly meant for her to use it in their service, but they _had_ given it to her… a donation from the pumpkin-eyed knight who she just _knew_ would arrive tonight.

The setting sun transformed Luna's hair into waves of spun gold; the full moon's rays made her eyes gleam like Sickles. She looked every inch the Faeling hybrid she was, a true granddaughter of Oisin and Niamh. Hermione couldn't help but be aware of how plain she looked in comparison, all earthy browns and oversized teeth, painfully human.

She made it through most of the ritual before the world shifted, filling with not-colors and not-smells and not-sounds at the very edge of hearing. Hermione moaned, eyes squeezing shut to block out at least some of the extra stimulation. Unfamiliar scents still wafted up her nose (she decided to breathe with her mouth. Even though she could still taste the not-smells, it wasn't quite as strong as before), but she no longer had to worry about being blinded by waves of light and color, shimmering rainbow cocoons around living creatures giving her a headache.

A door inched open. Its hinges, rusty with centuries of neglect, shrieked in pain. Hermione grit her teeth. The door gave one last cry, and then it was open fully. Magic flooded the world, a tsunami trying to drown her. She staggered backwards.

"Hermione!"

Then Luna was there, cool, dry hands hefting her upwards. Not thinking, Hermione opened her eyes. Her jaw dropped.

Luna's eyes really were silver coins, but not because of the moonlight. They shimmered from within, a few shades lighter than gray but at least as many degrees darker than white. Her pupils and sclera and irises had melted together, leaving nothing but that peculiar moonshine gaze. It should have been hideous. Instead, it was beautiful.

Mother-of-pearl seemed to crown the girl's head, threading through her pale hair. A hint of navy flickered above her heart, but most of her aura consisted of that shimmery mother-of-pearl with touches of goldenrod and pink. Her nails were each a different color: vermillion and mauve and maroon, twilight purple and evergreen and boxwood yellow, black as night and white as the moon, cyan and citrine. Hermione had no doubt that if she'd been able to see Luna's toenails, they would shine with ten more exotic colors, shades that would reveal the secrets of her soul if only she knew how to read them. The scent of strawberries and leaf piles filled the older girl's nostrils, bringing to mind images of children playing outside.

"Are you all right?"

Her voice had gained musicality, a faint echo of Samhain revelry and hunting horns. It was nothing compared to the not-voice that spoke next.

Greetings, Truth's Messenger. Greetings, Scion of Niamh.

"Greetings, autumn-eyes," Luna returned, not missing a beat.

Silence.

Hermione opened her eyes. Color assaulted her, too bright, too cloying. It hurt—the human brain wasn't meant to handle all these stimuli, human eyes not designed to see more than a thin band of visible light. A distant part of her brain wondered what she would see in a nuclear plant or radio station, but the rest of her dismissed that question as absolutely irrelevant. Perhaps, when she was very old and had her life under control and nothing better to do, she could visit one of those places and observe it with her serpent sight. For now, she had to deal with a tricky, slippery Fae man who seemed to think that his people owned her.

"I would know the bargain."

Luna had coached her on what to say. Don't make requests, she had advised, don't ask for favors. Above all, don't make demands. Simply state facts and remember you have the right to know the bargain. It might not amount to much, as Fae were just as apt to use obscure language as the average Seer, but even a hint was better than nothing.

Life for life.

Luna's indrawn breath rattled in her throat. The silver eyes went wide.

You forge threads of magecraft, Owlheart, that work both ways. The orange eyes burned like twin sunsets—or perhaps twin sunrises. Learn to see.

"Learn to see?" Hermione repeated. Not technically a question, though she did lift her pitch toward the end. "Life for life?"

Learn to see, the knight confirmed, and life for life. We can wash the impurities from your eyes, if only you hold to Fire's bargain.

Luna's shoulders slumped with relief. She exhaled, body shrinking into itself. "Oh. Good."

Hermione lifted a finger to the skin atop her cheekbones, below her serpent-tainted eyes. "Of course," she breathed, relief seeping into her bones. Practice made perfect. If she were forced to use the serpent sight again and again while restoring raths, of course she would get better at controlling it. That was how life worked: through practice, children learned to walk, musicians to play, witches to make magic. Her serpent sight was just another form of magic: not something that most humans used, a form wilder and more closely tied to its roots, but that didn't mean she couldn't master it in the same way she had mastered _expelliarmus._

"I see."

Oh? Wrinkles creased at the corners of his eyes. The horse beneath him pawed the ground. Are the impurities in your sight already washed away? Have you already solved this riddle?

"Perhaps." Doubt stirred. This seemed almost too simple, too neat and tidy. Yet what else could it—

Insight struck, as sudden and unexpected as a shooting star. Not her physical sight, but her mind's eye. They had been hinting at it all along.

The Fae could help her solve the riddle.

Relief almost made her fall over. The serpent sight was fading, she had an answer to at least one riddle, and the Fae had practically guaranteed her an answer to another, much more important question. She didn't have to worry about dying or being carried off to the Otherworld while restoring raths, just on probing the orange-eyed knight for hints about Dumbledore and whatever mystery she was supposed to solve. Yes, the Fae wanted payment, and she would really rather not have to suffer serpent sight-induced headaches every month (she could already feel pain building in her temples), but it would be worth it. So, so worth it.

The Ravenclaw almost forgot herself. Her mouth opened, the words "Thank you" bubbling up in her throat. Then the last vestiges of her serpent sight flickered, choked her. The orange eyes glinted with amusement. Was there something you desired to say, Messenger?

"I thought better of it," she replied, not bothering to lie. Getting caught trying to deceive a Fae knight (and she would have been caught) was much worse than admitting that she'd almost thanked him. Thanking a Fae man, Luna had drilled into her head, was the same as admitting that she owed him.

And if she knew what was good for her, she probably wouldn't want to owe him anything.

Wise of you. Niamh's descendent has trained you well.

"She has a very teachable mind," Luna demurred.

As she must. On that note, the pumpkin-eyed knight steered his charger back to the rath. Fare thee well, Messenger, Scion.

"Fare thee well, autumn-eyes."

"Fare thee well, er, world-rider." He had never actually said goodbye before, so Hermione was taken off guard when he announced beforehand that he was leaving. Not for the first time, she wondered what his name was or if he had some important Fae title that she was supposed to use and, every time she didn't use it, caused a minor interdimensional incident for which she would pay dearly once the Fae had no more need of her. But Luna had not seemed alarmed by Hermione's words, so she decided that she had not yet caused an inter-species war or even horribly insulted her only regular liaison with the Fae courts.

Then again, it _was_ Luna. She did not exactly wear her heart on her sleeves.

Suddenly nervous, the elder Ravenclaw turned to the younger. "Was that an appropriate title for him?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Luna blinked like an owl herself, honestly confused.

Hermione smiled with relief. "I don't know much about the Fae, I'm afraid," she confessed.

"Neither do I," Luna chirped.

"What?" Hermione pulled back.

"I know how not to make them kill us," Luna clarified, "but not much else. I'm sorry."

"No—no." Hermione shook her head. "I don't mind." She did—the thought of knowledge that she couldn't get ahold of made her brain burn—but it wasn't Luna's fault that she lacked all the facts that Hermione desired. Oral knowledge had a way of diffusing over the generations, and Niamh's descendants had lived in the mortal world for…. Hermione actually didn't know how long. She would have to ask Luna for a family history one day. But for now, she would just have to content herself with learning how _not_ to offend extra-dimensional, more-than-a-bit-immoral, absurdly dangerous beings to the point where they killed her.

She supposed it could be worse. Luna could have an encyclopedic database of Fae agricultural customs (assuming they even had agriculture) or knitting patterns and not of how to placate them. All in all, Hermione was rather glad that her friend specialized in the _not-dying_ part of human-Fae relationships.

"Oh, good." Luna smiled. "Now what?"

"Now," Hermione replied, "we go back to Hogwarts and tell the others what the knight told us: somehow, Blaise's deal will help me solve the riddle."

"Is that what he said?" Luna asked.

Hermione's blood chilled. "I…I thought so," she answered. "They'll cleanse the impurities from my eyes? At first I thought it was the serpent sight, but then he mentioned riddles."

"He also mentioned life for life," Luna pointed out.

Hermione shrugged helplessly. "Whatever the riddle is, it's important. Solving it can save lives. Their lives for human lives."

"I see."

"Why?" Her breath quickened. "Don't you think so? Did you have another idea?"

"I just don't see how the Fae could help you solve a human riddle. What is the riddle?"

Hermione winced. "I don't know," she confessed. "But the knight—he has been talking about it for a while. He dropped hints last time we met."

The last remnants of tension drained from Luna's shoulders. "I didn't know that. Yes, that makes sense. The Fae have a twisty way of looking at things. They can help."

"Yes." Hermione bobbed her head. She extended a hand. An ivory key gleamed in her fingers. "Shall we?"

Luna took hold of the key in the hand.

The Portkey tugged at their guts, dragged them through the ether to the Chamber of Secrets. They had been hesitant to use it for months, but Harry had found a tiny loophole in Dumbledore's new enchantments and it wasn't like the headmaster was sneaking down there every night in person. As long as they got out of the Chamber as quickly as possible, as long as they only used this Portkey destination sparingly, they would be all right. Or, at the very least, all right enough to constitute an acceptable risk. They still had to use Disillusionment Charms whenever transporting inside, though. Harry was paranoid like that.

They met in the centaur grove (which Harry, who had arrived before the girls, had thoughtfully heated for them) to compare notes. Did anything go wrong? Nope, not unless you counted Harry's bowstring slapping against his forearm and giving him a bruise that would hurt come morning.

But even with his skin still stinging, Harry was more interested in parsing every single word not-quite-spoken by the Fae knight than he was in showing off his injury. Yes, he made a joke about it, but then the Lightning Speaker was back in business. He and Daphne wanted to know every last detail: the inflection, the word choice, how long the knight waited before answering comments. Hermione had a phenomenal memory that had, due to the seriousness of the situation (of course it was serious. Her life could have been at stake) been working overtime, but she had paid more attention to the words themselves than to anything else. Luna commented that that was probably a result of all the books Hermione had read throughout her life, as she, who had read significantly less, had more recollections of the nonverbal information.

Eventually, Harry and Daphne came to the same conclusion that Hermione had reached: they couldn't be one hundred percent certain that helping the Fae would help Hermione solve the riddle (they could rarely be certain about anything when the Fae were involved), but this hypothesis was the best solution they could think of. And, as Neville pointed out, even if the knight hadn't been talking about helping Hermione figure out the truth, he clearly knew _something._ He had dropped enough hints to set the Ravenclaw's brain a-whirring, and no doubt he would continue to do so even if that wasn't part of Blaise's bargain.

Hermione went to bed feeling much better than she had in a long time. The riddle which had haunted her for over a year no longer seemed quite so insurmountable; it was still more complicated than anything she had ever attempted to discern before, but new information from the Fae would keep her from running into too many dead ends. Her hypothesizing would keep growing and growing, never stagnating, refreshed constantly by beings who had their own way of acquiring knowledge. If she did reach a dead end (which didn't seem likely, at least in her current optimistic state), all she would have to do is wait until the next full moon, when she could prize more answers from the Faes' liaison.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

* * *

><p>Mark Potter usually woke up with a smile on his face. It hadn't always been that way—back at Privet Drive, he'd been quieter, less happy, and that had reflected in his default expressions. But now that he had come back to the Wizarding World—now that he'd come <em>home<em>—his face had changed. The muscles involved in smiling had strengthened with use, while the ones which created frowns or even carefully neutral expressions had finally taken their well-deserved break. Nowadays, he could usually be seen with at least a slight upwards curve to his lips, if not a full-blown grin.

So when he woke up on the fifth day of classes after winter break with a smile on his face, he had no reason to suspect that it wouldn't last long.

Breakfast passed without incident. He wasn't particularly fond of kippers, but the Gryffindor table was always well-stocked with toast and jam, so he slathered some blackberry preserves onto his bread, gulped down his morning tea, and headed off for the Potions lab. A year ago, the thought of going to Potions would have replaced his cheery smile with a scowl, but that was before Slughorn had replaced Snape. The former threw wicked parties and had a great sense of humor; the latter was a git, plain and simple. He had deserved to have an acromantula rip his arm off.

As was now typical, a cauldron filled with happily bubbling liquid held the place of pride on Slughorn's desk. Mark slid into his usual seat—not too close to the front, not too far to the back, right between Ron and the edge of the row—and reached into his book bag for the day's assignment. Slughorn wasn't there yet, he observed, so he had time to jot down a couple more thoughts on his essay.

Ron rushed in then, scrambling for his own essay. He ended up dropping it onto the floor. Theo Nott, one of the Slytherins who took Potions with Gryffindor, snorted in derision. Ron made a rude gesture in his direction. Theodore made as if to stand up, but Slughorn's entrance kept him in his seat.

Smirking, the red-haired Gryffindor plopped down beside Mark. "I have a good feeling about this one," he announced.

"You mentioned that last night," Mark reminded him.

"I know, but it's a really good feeling."

"That's because you were working on it for what, a week?"

"A week?" Dean exclaimed. "Are you talking about the same Ron that we all know and love?"

"On and off for a week," Ron admitted. "Mostly off."

"Ah." Dean nodded. "The universe makes sense again."

Ron snorted.

"Assignments, please," Slughorn called. The students obediently passed their parchments to the center of the rows.

That was the first hint Mark had that something was wrong. He had trouble leaning forward; the bench beneath him scraped the floor as he handed his row's assignments to Slughorn.

Mark and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

As the lesson went on, they discovered that their rears were stuck to the bench they shared. No matter how much they squirmed and shifted, they couldn't break free. All they could do was get more of their clothing stuck to the seat.

That became a problem when Slughorn finished the lecture portion of his class. "We have just enough time to cut up our ingredients for next week," he said. His wand flicked. "There. Quantities are on the board. Make sure to crush the snake fangs into an ultra-fine powder. Some of you had lumps last time." He glanced at Lavender Brown, who flushed but nodded vigorously. Snape wouldn't have given them the warning; or if he had, he would have couched it in terms so insulting that the girl would have been reduced to tears. He had done that to students before, as everyone in Hogwarts could attest.

"Should we ask for help?" Ron mumbled, his voice covered by the din of students heading for the supply cabinets.

"No," Mark murmured back. The thought of asking for help in front of all his classmates made him grimace. "On the count of three, we stand up really fast. One, two, three."

The boys jumped to their feet. Or at least they tried to. They ended up stumbling, faces colliding with the table in front of them. Everyone turned to stare.

Mark pushed himself up, flushing furiously. So much for not attracting attention.

_Riiiiip! _

Ron's face drained of color. Slowly, oh so slowly, he craned his neck. Looked down. Loosed a low moan that rose in pitch until it was more of a strangled cry. His hands flew to the enormous hole in his pants and robes.

_Rii-iii-iiip!_

Mark's clothing was better-made, but it couldn't hold up the weight of the chair by itself. He scurried away from it, blushing even more. A distant part of his brain was grateful that only his robes and pants had torn, not his boxers, but most of him was focused on the humiliation of his trousers ripping in front of the entire class. At least no one was—

Lavender Brown giggled. She was joined by Parvati Patil, then Pansy Parkinson, then every child in the entire room save three was laughing and laughing and laughing. Slughorn's mustache twitched as he fought back his own reaction.

Mark sat down on the table. Ron jumped onto it, knocking aside their (fortunately empty) cauldron in his haste to cover his rear. He wished he knew some kind of spell that would block the view of his undies, but was a bit too humiliated to think straight. Maybe he could take off the rest of his robe, tie it around his waist, and run to the dorm?

Then Slughorn solved his problems by tapping his wand on Mark's knee. Magic flowed up the fabric of his pants, mending the hole. Another tap fixed Mark's robe. Then Slughorn turned his attention to Ron, who was scowling a bit at not going first. "Your ingredients aren't going to chop themselves," the professor called.

Still giggling, the students went back to work.

Mark's gaze landed on one of four people who hadn't laughed. Harry was cool as always, more sardonically amused than anything else. And he was not, Mark noted angrily, at all surprised.

The elder Potter stood by his brother's side in front of the ingredients cabinet. "Just so you know," he announced quietly, "I've enchanted the floor beneath my bed now too." He reached in, extracted a half-dozen snake fangs and two Shrivelfigs. "And Slytherin House has been warded against intruders." A pomegranate joined the other supplies in his arms. "I would recommend not coming back." Smiling blandly, he returned to his own table.

Mark's scowl returned full force as he conveniently overlooked the fact that he and Ron had struck the first blow by invading his brother's dormitory. This, the Gryffindor vowed, means war.

* * *

><p>Le gasp. Did Harry really just *indrawn breath* <em>act like a thirteen-year-old boy<em> when he took revenge on his brother? I don't-d'you think he's feeling okay? I mean, he was acting his age there with the pants prank.

Then again, Mark _was _kind of asking for it.

Next update: May 31. It'll probably be the Ravenclaw Task.


	18. Trivia Time

_Rowena Ravenclaw was one of the few humans whom even the Fae respected._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh,_ (_The History of the Treaty)_, translated c. 1952

Of all the tasks in the Tournament of Houses, Mark had only dreaded one, this one to be specific. He had every confidence in his out-of-book-smarts and team skills and absolutely no doubts about his courage, but he was the first to admit (if only to himself, in a very, very tiny voice at the back of his mind) that his book smarts could use some improvement. He knew this, but he had more important things occupying his mind and time and only began seriously preparing for the Ravenclaw Task a week before.

His efforts were hampered by Harry, so badly hampered that he was tempted to go to Professor Dumbledore or McGonagall and ask them to make his brother back off. Perhaps challenging a Slytherin to a prank war was not the best of ideas, but Mark was far too stubborn to admit defeat even when he was clearly outclassed. How could he defeat Voldemort the next time the tosser came for him if he couldn't even outsmart a boy only a few minutes older than himself?

Five days ago, though, he had realized that their prank was wasn't so much a war as a chess match: he would make one move, then Harry would follow it up with his retaliation. If he stopped pranking Harry for a while (or, as he phrased it to his friends, if they put off attacking until they could do something really grand once this task was over), then Harry would stop hiding their laundry where even the house-elves couldn't find it and jinxing their shoes and whatnot so he could focus. That way, Mark assured the three other Gryffindors currently in the dorm (Neville was the notable exception. Mark couldn't trust him—he was probably a plant), the three of them could concoct something spectacular and he could turn his attention to the task at hand. Perhaps if their finale were grand enough, then Harry would quit harassing them.

So for four days, following a particularly embarrassing incident wherein the boys' pants had been enchanted to emit flatulence all day long (fortunately Professor Flitwick managed to remove the spell before dinner. "Quite an impressive bit of Charms work," he had commented, ignoring Mark's scowl), the Gryffindor third-year champion had been able to cram to his heart's content. Admittedly, this was not much cramming relative to everyone else, as Ron kept distracting him with chess and Gobstones, but Mark learned a fair bit spell trivia.

The problem was that there was so _much _to learn. Even though he limited himself to spell trivia, which the seventh years thought was the most likely topic of the task, Mark found himself overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of information with which he had to deal. For the first time, he found himself glad he was on a team.

So here he was in the Great Hall, going through _1001 Strange Spells_ for the second time and trying to remember who had made the Ribbit Charm, which forced the victim to croak like a frog. It was… ah, there. Wendolyn the Weird… no surprise there. Perhaps once the task was done he could use some of these on Harry? He doubted that any third year knew the counterspell for the Ribbit Charm.

Dumbledore and the four Heads of House entered in a V formation, the headmaster at its point. Fawkes the phoenix perched upon the shoulder of his flamboyant flame-colored robes, blending in so well that Mark almost mistook him for an epaulet. The other teachers were more conservatively dressed, though Professor Flitwick, with an enormous stuffed eagle on his head and blue-trimmed bronze robes, was only barely so. It was his House's task, after all, and the little man was almost quivering with excitement. Clearly he expected his students to excel, catapulting them firmly into the lead.

Mark smirked. Not going to happen.

As pretty much everyone in the school had suspected, the Ravenclaw Task was to take the form of a quiz bowl. That much was obvious within the first few words out of Dumbledore's mouth.

The headmaster waited a few moments for the whispering to die down, his eyes twinkling merrily. "Yes, quite clever of you to have realized that," he agreed. "Now, does anyone know what subject we will be using? Any champion who can guess wins full points for his team."

Naturally, every champion just _had_ to guess, but no one got it right. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled even more brightly as the guesses went on: no, not magical creatures or astronomy or famous Muggles or Ministers of Magic. Herbology was a good suggestion, but no, that wasn't it either. Nor was entomology or candlemaking or wandlore or centaur culture or Native American spells. Mark suggested alchemy, a subject in which Dumbledore was particularly accomplished. Hermione Granger wondered if it was phoenixes, as Dumbledore had brought in Fawkes. But it was neither phoenixes nor alchemy nor anything else anyone guessed. It was….

"_Quidditch?"_ Hermione squawked in absolute horror.

A huge grin nearly split Mark's face in half as Dumbledore replied, "Yes, Quidditch indeed, Miss Granger."

The poor Ravenclaw looked ready to faint. Hers was a rather common reaction, at least among her Housemates. How ironic that one of the most un-Ravenclaw subjects in the wizarding world was so essential to the Ravenclaw Task.

The Gryffindors, though, had a rather different reaction. Theirs was the House that cared most for the sport, and Mark especially was absolutely thrilled. He knew Quidditch inside and out. Even better, this subject neutralized the biggest threat to their victory, the Ravenclaws themselves. He was a bit concerned about Diggory, who was a half-decent Seeker himself, but one person couldn't save the Hufflepuffs.

There were to be forty questions. The first team to think of the answer was to shoot green sparks into the air, at which point everyone would stop to listen to the team's answer. If they were wrong, they forfeited their opportunity to answer again. Each correct answer was worth one point, which would be added to the total score from the other tasks.

"Now that I've explained the rules," Dumbledore concluded, "I had best surrender the floor to our true expert on Quidditch, Madame Hooch." He gestured to the huge doors, which swung open of their own accord. Madame Hooch stood there, a tall, hawklike figure with sharp gray eyes and uncharacteristic eagerness in her step. She strode forward to the podium which Dumbledore had conjured for her.

"Question one," she announced in the carrying voice that allowed her to control dozens of first years on broomsticks, "Who founded the Holyhead Harpies?"

Mark's brow furrowed in thought. Holyhead Harpies. They hired only women. Seeker Glynnis Griffiths, captain something-or-other Jones. It was founded centuries ago, but by whom?

"Bridget the baker's daughter!" shouted one of the Slytherins, shooting sparks into the air.

"Correct! One point to Slytherin. Question two: Which team did the inventor of the Hawkshead Attacking Formation play for?"

Mark knew this one! He shot sparks, nearly singeing Collin Creevey in his enthusiasm. "Kenmare Kestrals!"

"Correct! One point to Gryffindor. Question three: Which team is famous for their rivalry with Thundelarra?"

One of Mark's fellow Gryffindors literally leapt at the opportunity to answer that. "It's the Moutohora Macaws."

"Incorrect. Gryffindor forfeits its right to answer this question. The other Houses may guess."

A Hufflepuff hesitantly raised her wand. "Is it the Toyohashi Tengu?"

"Incorrect. Hufflepuff forfeits its right to answer this question. The other Houses may guess."

The same Slytherin who had gotten the first question right tried again. "I think it's the Woolongong Warriors."

"Correct. One point to Slytherin. Question four: Why were the Moose Jaw Meteorites nearly disbanded in the nineteen seventies?"

And so on it went through all forty questions. In the end, Gryffindor and Slytherin (namely the one Slytherin who seemed just as Quidditch-crazy as Ron) were almost tied, twelve and thirteen, respectively. Hufflepuff managed a decent ten points, four of which were acquired by Diggory, and the Ravenclaws came in last at four points. One question ("Why do the Quiberon Quafflepunchers wear shocking pink robes?") could not be answered at all. Even now that the questions were over, Madame Hooch still refused to explain why.

Mark strongly suspected it had something to do with them being French.

"I knew all that, though," Ron wailed as they walked back to their dorm.

"Even about the Quafflepunchers?"

"Well, no. But I knew everything else. I really did! Wish she'd asked something about the Cannons, though." Ron sighed. "Mark, mate, you should have called in sick. I could've beaten that snake girl soundly. I knew two of the answers before she did!" He scowled.

"Sorry," Mark replied, "but I didn't know it'd be about Quidditch. If I had, I'd have figured out some way for you to communicate the answers to me."

"Maybe Morse code," Dean suggested.

"Yeah, like Morse code. It's a Muggle thing," he added at Ron's perplexed stare. "It was used in telegraphs."

Ron frowned. "I thought they were called tellyphones?"

"Those are different. You can talk through them. Telegraphs were older and you had to use Morse code to speak through them. No one uses them anymore, though, and the only Morse code I know is SOS."

"Floo calling is much easier," Ron commented.

"In the beginning, but now phones are better." They were, in fact, one of the few things Mark missed about the Muggle world. "You don't have to sit on your knees in a dusty old fireplace to talk with phones."

"…I thought they were called tellyphones?"

"Telephones," Mark replied, "and people call them phones for short. You should have taken Muggle Studies."

"Why? If I ever want to know about Muggles, all I have to do is ask you or Dad." Ron grinned. "You're like my own Muggle library."

"Ha ha." But Mark was smiling.

"Don't look now," muttered Seamus, "but we've got company."

"Who is it?" Mark queried, tensing up.

"He was born just a few minutes before you, has dark hair and glasses, and was Sorted into Slytherin House."

Mark groaned.

"He's not going to prank us, is he?" asked the nervous Ron.

"No, I'm not," said Harry, who had by then caught up with them. "I wanted to ask if the lack of attempted pranks these past few days means that we aren't going to do this anymore, or were you just too busy focusing on the task?"

"Not going to do it anymore," Ron lied. Ever since Harry's guard had gone up, he had been almost impossible to catch. If they could trick him into letting it down, they could do something truly spectacular.

"Nope," Dean agreed.

"You win," Seamus added.

Harry said nothing, just gazed unblinkingly at Mark. Mark, who had never been able to lie to his older brother.

Not that he didn't try. "Nope. Not going to do any more pranks." It came out a bit too fast, a bit too high-pitched. His smile too was plainly forced.

Harry's eyes grew sad. "I see." A sigh. Despite their falling-out, that sigh still made Mark's insides squirm with guilt. The child in him wanted to confess, to beg forgiveness, anything to banish the disappointment from his big brother's face and voice. The Boy-Who-Lived in him quashed that urge.

"Don't believe me?" he snapped.

Harry raised a slender black eyebrow. "Should I?"

"Yes." Ron, Seamus, and Dean answered almost simultaneously.

"I wish I could," Harry replied, so sad and old and hopeless. "I don't enjoy humiliating you, Mark, but I can hardly stand down and let you use me as your target. A prank for a prank, when you stop, I will too. Until then, I must apologize in advance for your upcoming mortification." He bowed slightly before turning to join the other Slytherins, who were gloating over their victory on their way to the Common Room.

Mark hated himself for wanting to follow, to say that he really wouldn't prank Harry—his brother, his twin—again. Once again, though, he forced the impulse down. And he did not look back.

Instead, he continued on. "Come on. Let's go to the Common Room."

Except he regretted that decision almost immediately, his friends wanted nothing more than to talk about Harry, Harry, Harry: about their encounter with him, about their plans for the Granddaddy of All Pranks (which mostly involved Seamus and Dean arguing about their ideas, Ron's and Mark's plans having been discarded early on), about whether Harry would ever see sense and ask for Mark's forgiveness. The younger Potter's nerves were still strained and tight. He couldn't stand to listen to it anymore. Harry this, Harry that. But he could hardly change the conversation to something more palatable—say, Gryffindor's performance in the task and his own role in answering several questions—without looking like he was trying to change the subject.

So he made a strategic retreat: "I have to go to the Library. Want me to pick anything up?"

"Maybe if there's a good book on pranking," Seamus suggested.

"There should be," Dean agreed. "The Library's enormous."

"I have a book for you to drop off," Ron said. "Let me go grab it."

The trip to the Library wasn't anywhere near as much an escape as Mark had hoped. For one thing, he had to hunt down a book on pranking, which kept his mind firmly on Harry until he abandoned his two selections at Madame Pince's desk and headed for the comparatively meager fiction section. He browsed the two shelves, searching for something silly and stupid and wishing that wizards wrote more stories. He didn't read for pleasure much because he had to complete his books in one or two sittings or his brain wouldn't retain everything, and he didn't often have time to do that now that he was a teenager. He'd read more as a very young boy when he and Harry had hidden in the elementary school library and looked through picture books.

Memory again. Mark scowled. What _was_ it that made him so sad about today? Normally _he_ was the one disappointed in _Harry,_ angry at his brother. Today the opposite was true. It must be the sigh, he decided, shoving a book into place with rather more force than was necessary. Stupid Harry, manipulating him like that….

He made his way to Madame Pince's desk, checked out the pranking books, and started stalking back to Gryffindor Tower. His thoughts were dark, his brow thunderous. He was completely absorbed in his own inner world, oblivious to everything around him, in a word, vulnerable.

Pain on the back of his head; he staggered, groping for his wand. The books went falling, falling. He tried to turn, but something struck him again, and he fell.

His head still ached when he awoke, but it had been joined by pain on the rest of his body. He felt like on big bruise. His nose especially hurt: it had apparently made contact with the stone floor, as the cartilage seemed a bit out of place and dried blood was crusted beneath both nostrils. His left palm was scraped as well, some of the skin torn away where he'd tried to catch himself. And of course there was his aching, miserable head.

Mark rubbed the base of his skull. One hand felt at his nose. Good. It had stopped bleeding. His palm had scabbed over as well.

Was this worth a visit to Madame Pomfrey? If not for the head injury, he would have gone back to Gryffindor Tower. But he was fairly certain that head injuries could be deadly if left unchecked, and he really didn't want to die anytime soon, so he'd best be off.

Grumbling, Mark gathered up his fallen books (the pages had bent something awful. Madame Pince would have a fit when he returned them) and began his trek to the Hospital Wing.

Had Harry done this? Mark considered for approximately half a second. No. Brute force was Dudley's style, not Harry's. They had argued earlier, yes, but he didn't believe that his brother had changed so dramatically as to attack him while his back was turned. No, Harry would have wanted him to know. Perhaps one of Harry's friends? Again, no. The princess was too much of a snob to actually hit someone upside the head. The other Slytherin preferred pranks. Neville was too much of a wimp, and the Ravenclaw girl too much of a bookworm. No, this attack had nothing at all to do with his and his brother's spat.

But, Mark wondered, if Harry hadn't arranged this, then who had?

And why?

* * *

><p>Harry was almost disappointed by Mark's next prank. Oh, it was decently executed, but he noticed it a moment before they struck. He ducked instinctively; the curses hit Gregory Goyle, who was quite coincidentally heading to the Great Hall at the same time as him (they were both apparently hungry early that night), instead.<p>

"Nice tentacles," Harry observed dryly. "He looks rather like Cthulu now, don't you think?"

But Mark (or at least one of his friends) was cleverer than that; the four Gryffindors fired another round of curses. Harry ducked, dropping to the floor and automatically raising a Shield Charm. Two of the curses bounced back; Dean was presumably hit by one, if his foul curse was any indication. That, or he'd injured himself trying to dodge.

Harry rolled, propped himself up onto an elbow. Keen green eyes surveyed his surroundings. He was surrounded and alone save for the betentacled Goyle, whose clothing was beginning to melt off. Harry grimaced; _that_ was a sight he'd never wished to see. Best not to look in that to focus on the four third years (including Dean, whose heavily made-up face indicated that he had indeed been hit by his own hex) whom were approaching at a run, firing spells all the while.

An ordinary third year wouldn't have stood a chance. Had Harry been such a being, Goyle's unfortunate fate would have befallen him, leaving him betentacled, his chest sprouting salt-and-pepper fur, his face covered in whorish makeup, his clothing melting away. But he was the Lightning Speaker, unwilling vessel of Voldemort's memories, and he was by no means ordinary.

The Gryffindors didn't stand a chance.

By the time Professor McGonagall pushed her way through the gagging crowd that had gathered, the four lions had been Petrified, Goyle was hiding behind a tapestry (which was starting to decompose due to whatever curse he had been hit with. Apparently it made all fabric with which he came in contact turn to dust), and Harry was enchanting his own outer robe so that it wouldn't be destroyed. The Deputy Headmistress's lips thinned. "What, pray tell, is going on here?"

Harry considered lying, discarded the idea. No. If Mark was going to continue harassing him, why should he cover his twin's butt? "They tried to ambush me," he replied simply, nodding at the frozen fourth years. "Hit Goyle instead. I'm decent with _petrificus totalis, _so I hit them before they could hit me too." He waved his wand with a murmured incantation. "There. Goyle, here you go." He passed his outer robe, which had been Engorged right after he knocked down the last threat, to Goyle's feet. The shoes covering them were faring better than the rest of his clothing (and indeed better than the rapidly fraying tapestry), but they were still about to fall off.

McGonagall glanced at her students, who were trying very hard and failing not to look guilty. She looked at Harry, who met her gaze without blinking. She looked at Goyle, who had thankfully managed to cover himself with Harry's Engorged robe. Her penetrating gaze took in the Slytherin's undulating tentacles, eye shadow, mascara, garish lipstick, and the tuft of unnatural five-inch-long chest hair peeking out from the neckline of his borrowed garment. Her mouth thinned further. "Twenty points from Gryffindor each. Mr. Potter, please escort Mr. Goyle to the Hospital Wing."

Harry nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Goyle seemed unnaturally small as he followed Harry. Perhaps it was the way he hunched in on himself, one hand trying to tame the fur on his torso. Perhaps it was the way he hung his head. Whatever the reason, he seemed even tinier than Harry.

For a while they journeyed in silence, Goyle out of humiliation and Harry because he couldn't change the other Slytherin back without revealing things he wasn't supposed to know and felt a wee bit guilty about it. Just a little, though—he and Goyle weren't exactly on the friendliest of terms. But when they were three or so minutes from the Hospital Wing, Goyle spoke.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Pardon?"

"Help me." Goyle's voice was thick and slow. It reminded Harry uncharitably of mud creeping down a hillside.

Harry shrugged. "It seemed the decent thing to do. It's not like you've done anything to them lately. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mark has been bothering me since we got back from break, and it's not fair that you got caught in the crossfire." Even if he had used Goyle as a human shield, it was only due to reflexes. When people started firing spells at him, he ducked.

"Oh." Goyle nodded slowly, oh so slowly. "But—never mind." He shook his head, tentacles waving gently. "Never mind."

"Here we are." Harry pushed open the door. Hoping that Goyle would say no (he was very hungry still), he asked, "You want me to explain what happened to Madame Pomfrey?"

Goyle thought for several long moments. "No. You're nice."

"Er—thank you?" Compliments from Goyle were _never_ expected.

Neither was the huge, craggy smile that broke out on the bigger boy's face. "I'm glad you're not the Boy-Who-Lived." And with that, he ambled off to find Madame Pomfrey.

Harry blinked several times at the other Slytherin's retreating back. What in Merlin's name was _that_ about? Then again, it was Goyle. Who knew what went on in his head?

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry turned around, made his way to the Great Hall. By the time he arrived, he had put Goyle's strange words completely out of his mind.

* * *

><p>All Quidditch facts except the bit about who founded the Harpies were taken from the Harry Potter Lexicon.<p>

Any last-minute ideas for the Gryffindor task? I still haven't written it yet.

Next update: should be June 21 and will possibly contain aforementioned Gryffindor task and/or spring break and/or something else. Really not sure yet. Hopefully it'll be decent, at least. See you then!

-Antares


	19. The Brave and the Blatant

_Laws were already in place that oppressed us..._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_History of the Treaty)_, translated circa 1952

The Gryffindor Task had been scheduled for right before the spring break, much to Blaise's relief. The idea behind the scheduling had been to make it easier for the champions to prepare for the final task, the challenge that would involve Hogwarts itself, but the date had the added benefits of getting this hassle over before their meeting with the goblins, mer, centaurs, veela, and dwarves. And possibly the Fae as well—he would not be surprised if the autumn-eyed knight or even one of the queens made an appearance at their meeting. His Sight hadn't told him anything about who would be in attendance, but he'd made decent predictions long before coming into that particular gift.

Hermione and Daphne were even more relieved. The girls were the champions, after all, and they had more reason to fuss over whatever the next task was, especially since the professors had remained remarkably closed-mouthed about what the champions would be facing. Not that the lack of concrete information stopped the rumor mill from churning out tales of Hagrid on Strengthening Potions or all-out melees to the death or hunting down Slytherin's Monster, which the entire school knew had fled Mark Potter's wrath at the end of the last year. Cho Chang of Ravenclaw swore that they'd be fighting dragons, while Cedric Diggory, who had fixated on the Quidditch theme of the Ravenclaw Task, wondered aloud if this would involve broomsticks and aerial battles. After all, if Dumbledore had been willing to put Quidditch into the Ravenclaw Task when Ravenclaws weren't nearly as sports-crazy as the other three Houses, it made sense that he'd do the same for Gryffindor, which vied with Slytherin as the most Quidditch-crazy.

Or, he admitted, it was equally likely that the task was only tangentially related to Gryffindor values and they should be prepared for everything.

So curiosity was high and last-minute speculation ran rampant as Blaise filed into his seat in the Quidditch stadium, where the rest of the school was gathering. "Any idea what's going on?" he asked the boy on his left.

Harry shook his head. "None. I've heard that some of the fifth and sixth years are taking bets on what the task will be as well as on who's going to win it."

"How do they calculate odds, though?" Neville wondered.

Harry shrugged. "No idea."

"Which fifth and sixth years?" Blaise asked, scanning the crowd. He bet that the Weasley twins were involved somehow.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you're going to gamble."

Blaise frowned at him. "Is that not allowed?" His voice was soft, almost dangerous.

Harry held up his palms in the gesture of surrender as he realized how he'd sounded. "No. Sorry. I just thought that it's not likely anyone's rumors are right and that gambling would just lose you money."

"Unless I bet that no one's rumors would be right," Blaise murmured. Ah. There's Katie Bell. Isn't she friends with the twins? Might know where they are, at the very least.

But it was too late. Dumbledore was walking to the center of the arena, tailed closely by the four Heads of House. Blaise huffed but settled himself more comfortably into his seat. "Don't suppose either of you are the betting type?"

Harry grinned wolfishly. "Not in this way."

"Gran would murder me if she found out."

"Who said Gran needs to find out?"

"She'd find a way," Neville predicted gloomily. "And if she didn't, someone else in my family will."

"They can't know everything. I mean, there's got to be lots about you they don't know."

"There is, but none of that's about gambling. Um, not gambling with money, anyways," he added, lowering his voice. "Now sh. Dumbledore's about to speak."

Indeed, the twinkly-eyed headmaster, clad in blindingly bright red and gold, had opened his mouth. Silence fell, save for students shifting in their seats as they leaned closer, eager to hear if they'd won their bets.

"Welcome, this fine spring day, to the penultimate task of the Tournament of Houses!"

The resultant cheering didn't last too long. The students wanted to know more, more, more, and then (hopefully) collect their winnings in triumph. That, and they wanted to watch the task, too. Whatever it was, it had to encompass the Gryffindor values of courage and daring, and that promised a show.

"As you know, Gryffindor House values daring, bravery, and determination so strong that some have called it sheer bloody-mindedness." Nods all around. "A true Gryffindor is willing to charge in headfirst, even if he does not know exactly what he must face." More nods and some eye rolling, particularly among the Slytherins. Harry gave Neville a teasing nudge. "Therefore, we have not told the students what they must face. They will be given five minutes to plan their strategy, but then they must fight! But what shall they fight?" The students leaned forward, ears pricking. Dumbledore chuckled. "It depends on the team. In first place, Ravenclaw, with sixty-seven points, will fight… a dementor!"

Blaise choked. Harry spluttered. Neville whimpered, "He's joking, right? Right?"

But he wasn't, for the entryway for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team opened up. Out glided a dementor: tattered robes the color of cremated remains, a hood as dark and deep, as the mouth of the grave, the faint odor of rot wafting even up to the stands. Blaise's lips drew back. He was too far for the being's abilities to affect him, too far to drown in his worst memories, and besides, there was only one.

"Didn't Dumbledore once say something about never allowing dementors on his campus?" Harry growled.

"I don't know." Neville had gone white. "Does Hermione know the Patronus Charm?"

Blaise squinted. McGonagall, at least, seemed displeased, and Sprout's normally cheery face had darkened into a scowl. Good. He couldn't see Flitwick or Slughorn's faces, but knowing them, they were less than pleased.

And indeed, Dumbledore's twinkling had gone down. "This dementor," he pronounced slowly, carefully, "is a… gift from the Ministry of Magic, which has of course taken an interest in these proceedings."

"I bet that this will get its own article in the next issue of the VV," Harry commented, a bit too casually.

"I thought you weren't a gambling man?"

Harry glared but said nothing before returning his attention to the dementor, floating a few inches above the field. Was it Blaise's imagination, or was the grass beneath its robe yellowing with death?

His heart thudded. "Hermione knows the Patronus Charm, right?"

"She's been studying it ever since Sirius Black's escape," Harry answered, telling the truth and providing an excuse to eavesdroppers in one fell swoop. "You know Hermione. She hears about Azkaban, so of course she has to learn everything about dementors. And once she learns about dementors, of _course_ she taught herself how to defend against them. I don't blame her." He fidgeted. "But I don't think she's ever actually cast it with a dementor around."

"Of course not," Neville replied. "Where would she find a dementor?"

Harry fiddled with his wand, intention darkening his eyes. If this monster got too close to Hermione…. If an innocent life, any innocent life, were in danger…. He had power enough to fight it off, power enough to save the innocent.

Power enough to expose himself. The dementor would recognize his Patronus, recognize him as the one who had rescued Sirius Black from his unlawful imprisonment. And it would talk (or whatever it was dementors did to communicate) to Dumbledore, tell him everything.

Harry was clever, but even he would be hard-pressed to talk his way out of that situation. And when his tongue was not enough (it would not be, no, it would not stand against such cleverness), everything would crumble.

But looking at Harry's face, Blaise didn't need his Sight to realize that his friend knew this too—and that, if push came to shove, he would use his Patronus anyways.

He rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sure that one of the professors will step in if something goes wrong."

Harry did not unstiffen, but his hand twitched away from his wand. Green eyes focused on the field.

The Ravenclaws had apparently been given their five minutes already, for they were striding into the field. Hermione walked at their head. Even from this distance, Blaise could make out the terror on her face, the slight trembling in her step—and the clenched jaw, the squared shoulders. He felt his lips curve into a smile. Good for Hermione.

The dementor turned its hood towards its prey. Was it Blaise's imagination, or did it seem to inhale deeply as though sucking in the sweat evaporating from the Ravenclaws' skin? The students slowed and shuddered. Most of them stopped. Hermione grit her teeth, the cords in her neck bulging, and drew her wand.

Blaise leaned so far forward that he nearly fell from his seat. Harry's breathing came in rapid pants.

"_Expecto patronem."_

Hermione's voice was clear, concise, crisp. A faint quaver threaded through it, that was true, but she sounded almost as strong as she did in the classroom, answering a question that no one else could. Blaise's heart rate slowed.

Silver mist flowed from the front of her wand. Hermione blanched; the mist faltered. Then, swallowing so hard that Blaise could see her Adam's apple bob, she took another step forward. _"Expecto patronem!_"

The mist coalesced into an almost-solid avian state. Sweat trickled down Hermione's brow, covering her face in a fine sheen of moisture. "_Expecto patronem, expecto patronem, expecto patronem!"_

The enormous silver raven charged, feathers flashing like moonbeams made flesh, eyes shining like diamond stars. It flew towards the dementor, talons extended, beak dagger-sharp. The dementor raised an arm to ward against it, but silver claws tore into its robe, revealing glimpses of the putrefying flesh beneath.

Hermione staggered, would have fallen if Luna hadn't darted in and held her up. The elder girl smiled; her Patronus seemed to gain new strength, tossing back its head before harrying the dementor, slashing at its fleeing form, driving it to the darkness whence it came.

Blaise leapt to his feet, a cheer in his throat. "Hermione! Goooo Hermione!" Beside him, Harry was doing the same, as was Neville on Harry's other side. Blaise could have wept with relief. Hermione and the other Ravenclaws were safe; Harry hadn't exposed himself and doomed them all, and….

…and Hermione had just cast a corporeal Patronus in front of hundreds of student and Dumbledore himself at age fourteen. Had it taken her a few tries? Yep. Had she managed it anyways?

Yes.

Blaise's applause slowed. He glanced at the staff box, wished he had a better view of Dumbledore's face.

Hermione lost her balance. The Patronus fizzled, dissipated into silvery mist before vanishing entirely. Its maker sagged against Luna as the other Ravenclaws (who were cheering just as wildly as anyone in the stands) belatedly realized that Hermione was exhausted and darted over to carry their now-bemused teammate on their shoulders away from the whooping crowd.

Blaise grinned again. He knew that all five of them were decently powerful, tough enough that Hermione shouldn't have keeled over for just one dementor. Dumbledore, though, didn't know that, and now he hopefully never would. That, or dementors had a bad effect on Hermione; she could be suffering a belated dementor-induced flashback. He hoped it was the former option but didn't discount the latter. He'd just have to ask when this task was finished. But whatever the reason, Hermione's collapse made it seem as though she'd come across some obscure spell in her reading (which would surprise no one) and had managed to cast it when it was desperately needed. She looked like a bookworm who performed well under pressure, nothing else.

Scores would be announced after all the teams had competed, so Dumbledore skipped straight to the next introduction: "In second place, Hufflepuff, with sixty-five points, will be battling a Hungarian Horntail."

Neville spluttered. "How is this legal?"

"How the devil should I know?" Harry demanded.

"Aren't Horntails the worst of the breeds?" Blaise asked.

"Most people would say so, yes," Harry confirmed.

"Then to quote Neville: '_How is this legal?!_'"

"Beats me," Harry grumbled

"Daphne's sister is down there," Neville whispered, leaning forward.

"Not yet," Blaise corrected. "She and the other 'puffs still have three, four minutes—"

"You know what I mean, Blaise," Neville growled. "Daphne's sister has to face a full-grown Hungarian Horntail."

"Diggory's pretty competent, though," Harry tried to assure him.

Neville's brow furrowed. "Harry, Blaise, what exactly do they have to do to end the task?"

"Beat the dragon."

"Did Dumbledore ever define 'beat the beastie'?"

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. "He didn't."

The Hufflepuffs, pale-faced and trembling, filed into the stadium. The yellow-and-black section of the stands cheered, though their enthusiasm was rather subdued by the sight of the enormous, coal-black, spine-covered, leather-winged, armor-scaled, razor-clawed, mallet-tailed, fire-breathing death-beast being led in through the other side.

"Oh, Merlin," Blaise moaned.

Harry stood, darted for the exit. His face had taken on a greenish tint, but Blaise didn't think he'd run off just to be sick. The other Slytherin sprinted after him, much to the annoyance of the people whose view of the upcoming bloodshed he was blocking. He caught up to the other boy right outside the stadium. "What're you doing?"

"Keeping them alive," was the short response. Taking out his wand, he incanted the words for the Disillusionment Charm. His spell was so powerful that Blaise couldn't see anything, but a raven's harsh caw and the beating of wings against the air told him everything he needed to know.

"What's Harry doing?" Neville hissed when Blaise returned to his seat.

"Animagus, Disillusioned," Blaise muttered from the corner of his mouth. He could barely hear himself over the hollering in the stands, the dragon's roars, the Hufflepuffs' shouted spells. Louder, he added, "They're not doing so well."

It was true. Astoria was down, clutching her leg and trying very hard not to cry. Blaise glimpsed the paleness of bone and the twin reds of burn and blood. He shuddered on her behalf. But Astoria was a Greengrass, Daphne's sister through and through, and she aimed her shaking wand hand at the dragon to fire off a useless curse that ricocheted off the beast's side. It was actually a good shot; if not for the trembling in her arm, she might have hit the eyes or mouth, one of the few vulnerable points on a dragon's body.

Cedric Diggory was levitating a ball of water that shook just as badly as Astoria's arm. As two of his Housemates provided a distraction, the Hufflepuff swung his floating pool into the dragon's face. The dragon jerked its head aside; Cedric's water followed until the tail hit him across the chest. The water ball burst, leaving the dragon wet and angrier than before.

_Hurry up, Harry,_ Blaise thought.

The dragon paused. It huffed, hissed.

To anyone else, the hiss would have sounded like annoyance or menace or rage. To Blaise and Neville, it sounded like Parseltongue. Too fast for them to make out more than a word here and there, but still Parseltongue, still music to their ears.

_Harry._

The dragon snarled again before going back to hissing. And then its neck was darting out, jaws clamping around Diggory.

Dozens of students screamed. The audience leapt to their feet. Even Dumbledore was standing, wand at the ready.

Cedric Diggory cast a flaming Stunner into the dragon's mouth.

The Hufflepuff had obviously put all his remaining magic into that final, desperate blow. The dragon's eyes rolled up. The immense body sagged, collapsed, raising a cloud of dirt around them. Cedric cried out as the jaws clamped down on him.

Madame Pomfrey charged across the stadium, robes kilted to her knee, wand at the ready. A quick Levitation Charm, a Stunner for the dazed Cedric, a stretcher. The Medi-witch barked orders at the staff, who were hurrying down to the field. The Hufflepuffs sat down as their teachers approached with stretchers.

For a few minutes, everything was chaos. The Hufflepuffs had to be evacuated, the dragon taken away. The students in the stands wandered about, chattering in excitement about the fight, their emotions, and how they hoped to Merlin that Cedric would be okay. Blaise and Neville felt like the only students still in their seats.

"What next?" Neville choked. "A nundu?"

"That's definitely illegal," Blaise assured him, trying to ignore the queasy sensation in his stomach. If there was a nundu, none of the Slytherins would survive. So there couldn't be a nundu. Not even the Ministry was that stupid.

He hoped.

But no, it was only a (herd? Flock? Parliament? No, parliament was for owls.) group of seven acromantulas that the Slytherins had to fight. Blaise actually sighed in relief before he realized that oh, wait, acromantulas were bad.

But at least they weren't nundu.

Harry hadn't returned. Blaise could only assume that he was still in the field, circling above the competitors just in case someone was about to die. But he restrained himself even when one of the spiders landed on Daphne, mandibles going for her throat before being blasted off by the third year's spell.

Eventually, the exhausted, bleeding Slytherins herded the injured spiders out of the stadium. Two students and one spider lay still on the ground, blood oozing from their wounds. Madame Pomfrey didn't wait until the other spiders were gone, just charging onto the field before the door closed, making a beeline for the smaller unconscious Slytherin.

The chaos of evacuation was more controlled this time, partly because the teachers had more experience getting their children out. Blaise and Neville kept their eyes on Daphne, whose robes had been torn along the sleeve and who seemed to be poisoned, if the staggering was any indication. Then again, that might have been blood loss—her pale hair was stained crimson.

Finally, finally, the field emptied. The students were receiving medical care, the last spider had been carried off, and all was ready for the next battle.

"For the last round, Gryffindor House, with forty-six points, will fight a Cerberus!"

"What?" Blaise roared, leaping to his feet. A Cerberus? A _Cerberus_? A dementor for Ravenclaw, a dragon for Hufflepuff, acromantulas for his own House, and a stinking Cerberus for the Gryffindors? Mark Potter knew bloody well how to fight a Cerberus—he'd tricked his way past one in his first year, for Merlin's sake! "Can you spell 'blatant favoritism' or what?"

"That's not right," Neville muttered. He frowned, reconsidered. "Not that any of these things are right. I thought that that one spider would kill Daphne."

The spider in question nearly had, but Blaise didn't say so.

The Gryffindors, confident in their strategy, opted out of the five-minute planning session. They walked into the stadium singing the latest Celestina Warbeck hit and playing some hastily conjured drums, cymbals, and tambourines. Fluffy the Cerberus (for how many of the blasted things could there be in Great Britain?) drooped. His eyes fell to half-mast before losing the battle completely. The Gryffindors laid down their instruments, though they still sang, and lifted Mark onto Fluffy's middle head. The boy struck a pose: chest puffed out, arms upraised, a triumphant smirk on his face.

The entire 'fight' lasted less than two minutes.

The crowd went wild.

Blaise let his muscles loosen, his jaw unclench. That had been… that had not been fun. Some of the other tasks—the Ravenclaw quiz bowl had been interesting, if biased, and he'd approved of most of the modifications undertaken during the Hufflepuff Task—but this had just been a nightmare.

Proof: The judges couldn't announce their scores right away. Madame Pomfrey wouldn't let several of the students out of her sight yet. Someone behind Blaise told his neighbor that Dumbledore was negotiating with the Medi-witch for the release of her 'hostages.'

For several minutes, the students milled about, chattering about this or that monster and what they would have done as champion and just the Tournament of Houses in general.

Harry took advantage of the confusion to return. "You talked to the dragon?" Neville murmured.

"It didn't work out very well," the other boy grumbled. "You saw." He shivered. "But I snuck a peek into the med tent. Everyone seems to be doing fine, including Daphne and Hermione."

The last bit of tension drained from Blaise's shoulders. "Thank Merlin."

"I did."

Pomfrey and Dumbledore had apparently come to some form of agreement, as the Headmaster and the Heads of Houses had once again taken their place in the center of the stadium. Flitwick raised his wand to his throat. When he spoke, his annoyed, magically enhanced voice carried across the stands. "Ravenclaw fought well, but because they relied on only one person as their sword and shield, they are awarded only thirty-two points out of fifty."

"Ninety-five total," Neville mumbled.

Sprout was next. "All members of Hufflepuff House fought valiantly, but suffered grave injuries and near-death. Their team therefore receives thirty-five points out of fifty."

"An even hundred," Neville noted.

Slughorn's turn. "Slytherin battled in the same way as Hufflepuff: valiantly, but with much blood shed. Therefore we receive Hufflepuff's score of thirty-five points out of fifty."

"Ninety-nine."

"Neck and neck, isn't it?" Harry murmured.

"Except for Gryffindor. Look at McGonagall's face—they can't have scored well."

And sure enough, the stony-faced Transfiguration professor's voice was tight and clipped as she proclaimed, "Gryffindor charged in without any wand or broomstick or potion to protect them, yet they still won in record time. Therefore they have been awarded forty-six points out of fifty."

"That doubles their score," Neville exclaimed. "Ninety-two. We're in the running again."

"Thanks to blatant unfairness," Blaise pointed out.

Neville grimaced. "I know. I wonder if the next task will be as rigged as this one?"

Harry scowled. "We'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

><p>A special thanks to Scarmagista, who kept track of the scores when I forgot that oh, yeah, I should probably keep track of those.<p>

Next chapter: due July 12, but my family is going on a trip to meet some relatives in another country, so it might be up to a week late. I'll do my best, and it won't be any later than July 19, but I'm not quite certain what we'll be doing on this trip and how much time I'll have to write. Sorry, but... At least the next chapter should be actiony, if all goes according to plan.

See you!

-Antares


	20. Ambush

_The only race missing from the meeting, other than the house-elves, was humanity._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

Not long after the Gryffindor Task, the prophesied five found themselves busier than usual. The full moon that month corresponded with the distribution of the current issue of the VV.

"Don't worry about it," Sirius ordered. "I can get it."

Harry-as-Pollux shook his head. "No, it's our paper. Besides, we've got it down to a system, haven't we? It won't take very long at all."

Sirius, who had by now seen the aforementioned 'system' in action many times by then, had to agree. "But I'll still start before you guys get there," he decided. "Might as well make myself useful."

"But you have," Hermione-as-Pallas assured him. "You've built all those cottages on Founder's Isle. The dignitaries will love them just as much as the werewolves do."

"I helped," Dudley reminded them.

"You did," Harry-as-Pollux agreed. "You made one of them by yourself, right?"

"Right," his cousin replied, puffing out his chest in pride.

Harry stifled a laugh. By Merlin, Dudley had changed just as much as he had, perhaps more. If Vernon and Petunia got out of Azkaban with their sanity intact (quite unlikely), they wouldn't be able to recognize their son.

As if to confirm his disguised cousin's thoughts, Dudley blurted, "Can I help?"

Blaise-as-Apollo blinked. "What?"

"With the owls. I don't have school tomorrow. I can help Sirius."

Harry shook his head in amazement. Forget about Vernon and Petunia, _he_ hardly recognized this boy. He really had made the right choice in getting Dudley out of Azkaban.

"I don't see why not," Neville-as-Alexander commented. "If it's all right with Sirius, of course."

"I'm fine with it if you are."

They would have to stay in their Fae forms, but that was hardly an imposition. Harry glanced around at his compatriots, who shrugged or nodded according to their temperaments. The general consensus seemed to be _why not?_

"Right," Harry declared, pushing himself from his seat, "then we'll meet the both of you in the Forbidden Forest in…" He glanced outside "…looks like an hour or so."

Dudley didn't quite smile at him, but his expression was better than the scowl he usually wore around Pollux Riddle.

If they had a system for tying issues of their newsletter to owls, they had an even better system for the Fae ritual. By now their archery skills were such that they could fire the three required arrows in record time (though only Neville and Blaise were anywhere near centaur level skills. No one was quite certain where Neville had gotten that ability, as his aim with spells was still mediocre). Soon five new raths were restored, and four of the five made their way back to the Forbidden Forest.

Hermione was the last to go. As per usual, the autumn-eyed knight had melted out of the mists as she finished. The rider gave her a moment to recover from the onslaught of Fae magic bursting from the rath, unusually kind of him, before he spoke. When shall you meet with the others?

"The others?"

You plan a great council of the races, of werewolf and merkin and all the others. When will this be?

"Oh. I thought that you knew already—you usually do." She hesitated. Was it really a good idea to sic the Fae on the unsuspecting rulers? After a moment's consideration, she decided that the benefits outweighed the cons. It wasn't like the others could declare war on the Fae, who lived in another dimension entirely. The reverse wasn't true, though, so she proclaimed an ultimatum: "I can't tell you without assurance that you won't declare war on any of the other attendees for some minor diplomatic slight. Your people have been banished for centuries, and the others have probably forgotten how to deal with you. I need your word that you will make allowances for them."

The knight tilted his head, orange eyes unblinking. You needed no such allowances.

"Not true," Hermione corrected. "Harry had Saysa, who has met with you before. The rest of us had Harry and Saysa, even Luna now. We did not know if your queen planned on attending, and I doubt that the dwarf king or anyone else would appreciate being told what to do anyways."

The knight bowled his head in acquiescence. They are a proud people, as strong and unbending as the stone whence they came. I shall relay your conditions to my queens.

Hermione noted the plural, filed it away for later. That answered one question by creating three more. How like the Fae, she thought with a quirk of her lips. Then another thought crossed her mind. "I told my friends that I would help them, so I must get going now. Could you…er… meet me in the Forbidden Forest. That is," she added, nervousness at making a request of a Fae tying her tongue, "if you intended to come back for the date and time tonight. If not, I suppose we could arrange a meeting of some sort. If that would work."

You could, was the dry response, tell me now, and I could inform my queens that they might have all relevant knowledge before making their decisions.

"I think not," was Hermione's equally dry answer. The knight's eyes crinkled; a chuckle sounded in Hermione's thoughts. The girl's eyes went wide as she realized that he had made a joke. Somehow, by some miracle, she had gotten on joking terms with a full-blooded Fae.

The silent laughter faded; pools of orange bored into Hermione's skull. You are ours, the knight proclaimed, so solemn and certain that Hermione shivered. Go to your forest. Let destiny ride, Maidem of Air.

"What?" Hermione stepped forward. "What are you—"

But the knight wheeled his steed around and was gone.

The Ravenclaw huffed in annoyance. How utterly _typical_. Bloody obnoxious Fae and their bothersome riddles. A nuisance, that's what it was.

But they'd arranged a meeting place, and he could arrive at any time, so she'd better get going. She didn't think her friends would appreciate it if the pumpkin-eyed knight just randomly appeared on them. They probably wouldn't appreciate it if he popped in on them not-so-randomly, either, but there was nothing she could do about that. Hopefully she could mitigate the potential disaster by giving them some warning.

Hermione shifted into her Fae form, Apparated to the Forbidden Forest.

"What took you so long?" Blaise-as-Apollo asked.

Hermione-as-Pallas grimaced. "The knight showed up," she explained.

Harry-as-Pollux paused his tying. The bird in his hand gave a soft hoot of annoyance. "Did he say anything interesting?"

"Yes. 'Let destiny ride, Maiden of Air." Hermione huffed.

"What do you think that means?"

The Ravenclaw didn't answer. The serpent sight welled up within her, repainting the world in viridian and neon, banishing the shadows of the night. Her friends shimmered with the remnants of Fae power, their forms transfigured into pure light. The Horcrux in Harry's brow stood out as a writhing mass of cankerous darkness, swallowing tiny sparks of light like a small black hole. Padfoot's shadow lurked at Sirius's heel. The other wizards' Animagus forms flickered around them: fox, ram, jaguar, raven, the raven more distinct than the other three, though nowhere near as defined as the dog. The owls glowed too, the magic in their lineages lighting them up from within. That was the magic which allowed them to find their quarries, to fly faster and longer than ordinary birds, to be so valuable to wizardkind. For the most part it was wholesome kind of light, not as bright as the humans' but not weak either.

But one owl glowed more brightly than the rest, its being filled with a twisted kind of not-light not-smell not-sound that looped away from it in a stinking cord of _comecomecome_. Hermione had never seen anything like it before, but she could guess what it must be.

Somehow, her voice remained steady as she whispered, "Do we have a spell on these owls that prevents Tracking Charms?"

"Of course." Pollux's brow knotted in confusion. "We did that way back when we started, remember?"

Pallas pointed a trembling finger at one of the owls, an innocuous gray bird with slightly neater feathers than the rest. "That one doesn't."

"What?" The others' heads snapped around.

"My Sight," Pallas explained, throat dry. "There's an owl with a Tracking Charm. We have to get out of—"

Too late. Wards flared, encircling them in two domes of slate-gray magic. Hermione had seen similar spells around Hogwarts: anti-Apparition and anti-Portkey wards.

They were trapped.

"What's going on?" Dudley wondered.

Again, Hermione didn't answer. She thought back to months ago, to the Ravenclaw Task and the words spoken that day. _May the Messenger of Truth, Maiden of Air, beware those who carry her comrades' messages of truth. Fear them…._And the knight with whom she had just spoken: _Let destiny ride, Maiden of Air._

"Run!"

Magic swirled, coalesced into the tall, thin shape of a man. A shape that should have been bright but was instead corrupt, swallowing everything around it, a cocoon of bile. Hermione glimpsed poison green and peachy flesh tones before the figure raised a rod of darkness, something so _foulwickedvile_ that Hermione's Sight evaporated like frost in the midsummer sun. She staggered backwards, pain shooting through her temples, spots dancing before her eyes.

That was why she didn't see the brilliant purple spell nor hear her friends' cries of horror nor sense the electric crackle in the air until the curse struck her in the chest.

The force of the blow knocked her off her feet, sent her flying backwards. Her head slammed against a tree root. The spots in her vision exploded in size, plunging her into darkness.

The last thing she noticed before the dark claimed her utterly was the copper-and-iron scent of her own blood.

* * *

><p>This plan, Albus Dumbledore reflected, was much, much easier than his original plot to use the werewolves. Why bother going through such convolutions when he could break through the anti-Tracking Charm spells on his enemies' owls (admittedly, it had taken more effort than he'd expected, but it was still simpler by far than a political plot with too many variables to safely control)? True, this hadn't told him who the Maiden of Air was until the fool girl had let it slip herself, but he'd intended to kill both females.<p>

He had arrived early on in the night, just in time to see Sirius Black and an unfamiliar boy (an illegitimate son, perhaps? Though if he were, he obviously took after his mother) be joined by the first of his original targets, Bianca Frost. He doubted that she was the Maid of Air, but her pseudonym might be intended to misguide killers who knew about the dementors' prophecy, and he didn't want to take that chance. So he had waited until Pallas Dhar arrived, at which point she had practically introduced herself to him, painting a virtual target onto her back.

And now the woman was dying, her lifeblood soaking the earth and into the dark hair that fanned out behind her limp, rolling head.

The Tom Riddle lookalike screamed, a high-pitched shriek that would not have been out of place in his supposed father's mouth. Spinning on his heel, he aimed a curse in Dumbledore's direction. "_Show yourself!_"

Dumbledore cast his own spell with a mere flick of the Elder Wand. His anti-Portkey wards collapsed in on themselves, the force of their disappearance rippling through the clearing. Riddle snarled, face still twisted in rage, and shot a spell as thick as his arm at his enemy. It burned like starlight made liquid, searing Dumbledore's retinas. He barely managed to dodge; its heat singed his hat, blackening several threads and leaving a tiny hole. Easy to fix, but still disturbing. Riddle must be powerful indeed if he could force his way through Dumbledore's armor-wards.

For a moment, the headmaster wondered if perhaps this man were too dangerous to leave alive. He discarded the idea almost immediately, though; Mark Potter needed all the training he could get, and without the air woman, Riddle's group was rendered harmless. Oh, they might mess up a few general schemes, but prophecy promised that Air held the key to Dumbledore's downfall.

_Five together shall live, but broken must fall._

He activated his Portkey, the crack of his magic echoing around the clearing. The magic swept him to his office, where Fawkes noted his triumphant expression and gave a low, mournful cry before beginning to weep. Dumbledore ignored him. It was about time the bloody bird learned that he would never be free again. The threat to him had been eliminated, though four still lived.

Dhar was dead already, and the Five had been broken with her death. But they wouldn't have to mourn her too long. When Mark was ready, the five would reunite in the land of the dead.

* * *

><p>Rage, coiling slithering rage, threatened to consume him. Part of him was aware that such fury wasn't entirely natural, wasn't entirely <em>him,<em> but he ignored the whisper of foreboding in the back of his brain. One of _his_ had been hurt, one of his was maybe dying, and the smug rotten _rat_ responsible was still here, doubtless smiling and twinkling away.

He wanted him dead.

Harry shot curses into the area he'd last seen his prey, but to no avail. No body (hopefully a corpse) thudded down into the undergrowth.

A warm form tackled him. "Calm down!" bellowed Alexander's voice in his ear. "He's gone."

"No!" Harry-as-Pollux squirmed beneath the other man's weight, too furious to remember that he could Apparate (or perhaps not, as he was fairly certain there were still anti-Apparition wards up). "I'm going to—"

"Heal her," Alexander snapped. "You're the only one who can. Now do it!"

Bianca squatted down, her own face tight with controlled fury, and slapped him across the face. "He's right," she snapped. "Dumbledore is gone. Now you have to heal her."

The slap felt more like a bucket of cold water being emptied on Harry's head. His mind cleared. He was still angry (of course he was still angry! That foul, loathsome son of a goat had just killed—tried to kill—his friend! It was right and natural and normal to want him to suffer, to die, to experience threefold what he'd done to Hermione), but sense had made some headway. They were right, his friends. He was the only one with enough magical experience to begin healing Hermione.

Except that Voldemort hadn't exactly studied healing magic. Neither had Harry. He'd been too busy trying to crack a way to destroy the Horcruxes without killing his brother. That was a form of healing, but not of the kind that would be useful now.

He darted towards Hermione's—Pallas's—prone form. Her hair pooled out behind her, darkness made even darker in places by blood. Her eyes were still half-open but had rolled back into her head, leaving only the whites visible. A trickle of blood ran from her nostrils, dripping into her slack mouth. Her skin, when Harry touched it, was cold and clammy and pale, almost as pale as her regular form. Her muscles had gone utterly limp.

In short, she looked like a corpse already. If not for the faltering pules in her wrist, Harry would have thought her dead already. But now that he'd felt her irregular heartbeat, his own pounding heart quieted enough that he could hear her breathing. It echoed around her throat, thick and dry and strained.

Fear threatened to make Harry collapse. He recognized that kind of breathing, had heard it many times in Voldemort's memories. It was the death rattle.

Hermione had only minutes to live.

Harry's throat clogged. "Where'd the spell hit?" he gasped.

"Didn't see."

"Nor I."

"Sorry."

Sirius was slightly more helpful: "Somewhere on her front."

Harry nodded, head jerking. He drew his wand, wiggled it in a complex pattern meant to seek out magical residue. There. Right at the base of her throat, the little dip in the collarbone. It flickered briefly before guttering out; the curse had dissipated. For a moment, Harry considered invoking the serpent sight, but he would have no idea how to utilize the information it would give him.

With no better ideas, he cast a spell that would slow down the body's metabolic processes, its heart and breath and digestion, all the works. That gave him another thought. "Saysa. Someone go get Saysa."

"I will," he heard Bianca say, and with a crack she was gone.

Harry's heart slowed, though only a little. If Saysa got back in time, she could Petrify Hermione, buy them even more time. She knew how to use the serpent sight in a useful way. She could fix things.

Hermione's breath hitched. Harry's throat went dry before she took another shuddering inhalation.

_If_ Saysa got back in time.

Dudley cried out. Harry ignored him, ignored the sound of footbeats approaching. He cast the slowing-down spell again, augmented it with diagnostic charms. She had enough blood, but the oxygen levels therein were dangerously low. How could he add oxygen? He didn't think he'd ever learned how, either as himself or as Voldemort.

Stormson.

The voice-not-voice echoed in his head, carrying with it the impression of sorrow and regret and purpose, the shadows of something wild. Despite himself, Harry looked up into a pair of pumpkin-colored eyes.

"Out of the way. Saysa's coming, I just have to keep her stable until then—"

Ancient grief shone in those ancient eyes. Hermione's breath hitched again. This time, it did not come back for over two seconds. Harry choked back a sob, returned his attentions to the prone form.

Neither you nor the Lady can save her now.

"_No!_"

Harry was not the only one who cried out. They all did. Everyone but the knight with eyes like autumn leaves, who dismounted his steed in a single fluid motion. Then he was beside Harry, still frantically waving his wand, wondering if mouth-to-mouth could perhaps buy his friend more time, hoping and praying and wishing and yearning with all his heart that the Fae man was wrong, wrong, wrong!

Nothing in your world can save her from fuga spiriti. Not now.

Harry could have screamed, could have sobbed. Fuga spiriti, the flight of breath. Hermione couldn't inhale, couldn't metabolize the oxygen in her blood. It was a form of asphyxiation with no known countercurse, merely a few charms that could delay the inevitable—until the body in question built up immunity to them. Even if Harry had known those charms, Hermione would have only had a month to live.

Armored arms slid under the limp form. Harry's eyes widened with impossible hope.

Orange eyes burned into his gaze, into his soul. Somehow, despite his lack of prophetic ability, Harry knew exactly what the knight would say. And sure enough, he said it.

Fear not Fire's bargain.

* * *

><p>Next update: in theory, August 2. However, I'm not entirely certain if I'll have internet then. If worst comes to worst, I'll have to give you guys an unbetaed double update on August 23 instead. Poor Tetsurga, all left out of the loop.<p>

Any suggestions for the Hogwarts Task?

-Antares


	21. Changeling

_Not even the wisest elders know much about the Fae._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh,_(_History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

Pacing won't do anything, Pollux," Blaise snapped. He'd almost slipped up and called Harry by his real name in front of Dudley; that added to the frustration he felt about Dumbledore's (for who else could it be? Who else had means and motive to attack them? Only a powerful wizard could have removed Harry's anti-Tracking Charms without triggering defenses, and he could think of a dozen other reasons that only Dumbledore could have been Hermione's attacker).

"Neither will standing still," the younger boy snarled back. Part of Blaise noted that Harry must be frightened of his behavior as he fought the attacker, of his rage and shrieks and lack of control, and that that fear must translate into another dose of anger, but the Seer was beyond caring. He, too, was Hermione's friend; he, too, was stretched close to the breaking point.

So instead of gritting his teeth and excusing his friend's understandable temper, he did as Harry had done and retorted, "At least this way I'm not making enough noise to rouse the bloody dead!"

"We're not that loud," Sirius growled. He too was pacing, his face pale against the darkness of the night-clad trees.

"Yes you are. What if we're attacked again, what then? We won't be able to hear it!"

"We won't _be_ attacked again!" Harry raged, flinging up his arms. "He had a goal, and he got her."

"How do you know, eh? What if he's just doubling back and—"

"Knock it off!" yelled Neville. "Just stop it. This arguing isn't helping anything!"

All three other wizards turned to glare at him, their mouths open for another caustic one-liner, but the _crack_ of Apparition interrupted. They spun, hands on wands, spells on lips.

Saysa and Daphne lunged forward, landing belly-first on the dirt. The top of Sirius's spell grazed Saysa's hair; the stench of burning permeated the clearing as the basilisk-turned-human batted frantically at her head. "Sorry!" Sirius yelped.

"Why isn't it going out?" Blaise demanded, rushing forward to help the new arrivals.

"It's Gubriathian Fire," Sirius explained. He aimed his wand at the affected strands of hair, slicing them off and tossing them onto the dirt. "Good thing it doesn't spread fast."

"Where is Pallas?" Daphne demanded, eyes darting around the clearing.

The males all spoke at once, their words blending together. Even Dudley chipped in.

"The knight showed up—"

"You remember the knight, don't you, the one—"

"Apparently Fire's bargain came into play—"

"The Fae are involved now—"

"There was a man on a horse with armor, and I guess he's a fairy thing—"

"—you know the one, the one with orange eyes who's been harassing her—"

"—who shows up all the time just to act mysterious—"

"—whatever the devil _that_ is—"

"—and they took her away!"

"—and he took Pallas away on his horse—"

"—he said that only his people could help—"

"—he brought her to the Otherworld." Sirius sighed, wishing he knew more.

"—and I guess that that's a good thing, because I think Fire's bargain just saved her life." Neville shuddered at how close his friend may have just come to dying, then shuddered again when he realized that he hoped she had only come close.

"—I guess to a hospital? A fairy hospital?" Dudley looked a bit skeptical of his own conclusion.

"Quiet!" Daphne cried, cutting off the two who were still speaking. "Pollux, what's going on?"

"The knight showed up. The orange-eyed one, you know him—" Daphne nodded impatiently. "—he said that only his people could save her from the fuga spiriti curse."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"It makes it so that your body can't take in air. You asphyxiate. There's no cure."

Saysa sucked in a breath.

"None on Earth, you mean," Neville corrected, his voice querulous. "There's obviously something in the Otherworld, right?"

"It looks like it," Harry murmured. "I just…." He trailed off. Saying that he hoped the knight had made it in time would not be a productive statement. "I just hope they get her back soon," he concluded lamely.

Daphne closed her eyes, swallowed. "I've no doubt she will be," the other Slytherin assured him, responding to the unspoken words just as much as to the spoken. "All the stories say that time passes differently there. She's probably finishing up her recovery therapy right now and will be back any minute. Until then, how many owls are left?"

"You're _joking_," Sirius burst out.

Daphne rounded on him. "No, I am not joking. Unless you have a way of contacting the Otherworld, there is nothing we can do or say or _anything_ that will help Pallas." The cords in her neck bulged; her fists clenched until the knuckles shone white. "All that we can do is complete our task for the night. I'm assuming that you did not send out any more owls while I was gone? No? Then we ought to continue. Besides," she added, softening just a bit, "this is the last place that the knight saw us. He'll bring her here, I have no doubt."

But she was wrong. They finished up with the owls, sending the feathery messengers off with their burdens. They stayed behind another hour, two hours, three, before conceding defeat. "We should schedule shifts," Harry suggested. His anger had mostly worn away to be replaced by worry and exhaustion.

"I'll take first," Sirius volunteered. "That way—oh, Merlin."

"What?"

"Who's going to tell her parents?"

"Her parents?" Dudley parroted.

Harry blanched. He imaged the Grangers waiting up for Hermione, slowly growing more and more afraid as the hours passed with no sign from their daughter. The rest of his friends had snuck out of their homes in an effort to keep their secrets from their wizarding relatives. Hermione's Muggle parents knew a bit more, though obviously not everything. They thought that their daughter was just involved in a semi-underground newsletter that addressed relevant political issues and fought for Muggle-born rights. They had no idea quite how dangerous their child's 'job' really was.

No one was looking forward to telling them.

Harry sighed. Ah, the burdens of leadership…. "You lot go home. I'll do it."

"Weren't you going to check in with Remus, then?" Sirius demanded.

Harry winced. He'd forgotten that his guardian, like Hermione's parents, knew what he was doing that night. "He's probably still in the cage, I think. He said something about tighter security and was worried about the Aurors actually doing their jobs tonight."

"I could check," Sirius suggested.

"The last thing we need is another visible connection between us and the werewolves," Daphne informed him. "Stay here and keep watch." A pause. "Pollux, did you want someone to go with you?"

"No, no. I can do this." He didn't want to, but he could. He would.

"I will sleep here," Saysa decided. "Sirius, could you awaken me when you grow tired?"

"Yeah."

The serpent-woman closed her eyes. Her form melted, limbs melding together, nose flattening, body growing longer and thicker. Soon a sixty-plus-foot basilisk was lying in the clearing, slithering so that she encompassed Sirius and the others in her coils.

"Wicked," muttered Dudley. Saysa hissed her thanks.

Harry didn't translate. Dudley already knew, he supposed; besides, he didn't have the energy. All he wanted to do was go home, curl up in a little ball, and cry for a friend who _hadn't come back._ He spun on his heel, vanished into the ether with a crack.

The Parselmouth approached the Grangers' home slowly, his feet heavy. He didn't even bother hiding himself as he changed back to his regular form. Normally, the very thought of transforming in plain sight (and yes, past midnight in a peaceful suburb where no one knew him or would believe their eyes even if they did see counted as 'in plain sight,' at least in Harry's mind) would have sent him into palpitations, but the exhaustion of the long day had caught up with him. He simply couldn't bring himself to care.

A pale, slender hand lifted to the door of a modest, pleasant house with flowerboxes in the windows. Before the hand made contact, though, the door swung open. Jean Granger stood there, dressed in a fluffy blue bathrobe, her hair just as wild as her daughter's. "Where's Hermione?" she demanded without preamble.

Harry flinched. "You know how we work on that political newspaper in our spare time?"

David Granger, clad in the same kind of bathrobe as his wife, ground out, "Where is she?"

Harry looked down. "We were sending out the owls when someone hit Hermione with a curse. A nasty one."

The color drained from David's face. He staggered backwards, nearly knocking his wife off her feet.

Warm wetness stung behind Harry's eyes. He blinked rapidly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

"Where is she?" Jean cried. She pushed her husband aside to get right in Harry's face. The boy couldn't help but look up, see the redness of her eyes. Lack of sleep, perhaps, or maybe she had already wept for her daughter.

"But she's getting care," he blurted. "Someone came, someone we know, he took her to his people—"

"_What?_" Jean squawked.

Ooh, that had come out wrong. Harry blanched. "That's not—I didn't mean—we know him. He has a better chance of healing her than anyone else."

"What. Do. You. _Mean!?" _

No, this was really not going well. Sweat beaded at Harry's temple. "I mean he's going to fix her." I hope. "He's going to—he's going to fix her. I just know it. He just hasn't gotten her back to us yet, that's all."

"Take us to her," David demanded. His hands grabbed Harry's slender shoulders. They were shaking. Any second and he could start shaking Harry too, worrying him like a dog with its prey.

Harry could have cursed if he weren't so tired. "I—"

"What," Jean breathed, "is _that?_"

Relieved by the reprieve, Harry turned. And beamed.

The knight and his horse were diving through the skies to meet them, but that was not the only source of Harry's joy. A second, smaller rider clung to the horse's back.

* * *

><p>Gregory Goyle cowered against the wall. Blood dripped from his nose. His breath came in short gasps. Even that hurt, the breath scratching his raw throat, drying him out further.<p>

His mother balanced on the balls of her feet, eyes wide, but she did not go to him. Whenever she leaned forward just a little more, those bulging eyes would travel to the center of the room. Then she would give a little shiver and lean back again.

The face of the Thing was blank, expressionless, as it watched the boy twitch and tremble. "You brought the wrong blood," it hissed, ruby eyes narrowed to slits.

"N-n-no," the Slytherin half-moaned, half-pleaded.

"Yes," the Thing (his master, his lord, the one to whom his parents had both sworn allegiance everlasting) hissed, drawing out the s at the end like the serpents it so admired.

It. He. Voldemort, the Dark Lord. Not just his parents' master, but his as well.

"I—Mark Potter," Gregory gasped out. He couldn't breathe, it hurt to breathe, why why why? His parents hadn't mentioned that the Dark Lord liked to torture his servants. They'd been full of the glories of his crusade, about the beautiful pureblood future toward which he was leading them. But his lord and master had shot a curse at Gregory, a young teenager, just for presenting him with the blood he'd desired! Where were the beauty and glory in that?

"Yes," Voldemort agreed, "the blood of Mark Potter." The pale, spider-like hand tightened around the borrowed wand he was using. Gregory would later learn that the Dark Lord's real wand had gone missing and was presumed destroyed, as the safe house where the wand had been kept was in smithereens, but at the moment, all he registered was that his father's wand had been turned against him. Dad's wand had tortured him.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He wasn't an enemy, he was a good servant, a loyal son. He was on the Dark Lord's side. He was good!

"But Mark Potter is not the Boy-Who-Lived."

Gregory heard his mother gasp, but then another Cruciatus Curse hit him in the back. He screamed, screamed screamed screamed screamed; his back was breaking, his blood afire, everything hurt hurt HURT!

"Mark Potter is naught but a mediocre child, a decoy who has fooled even the great Albus Dumbledore." (But if he fooled Dumbledore, why d'you expect me to know any better? Everyone knows how smart he is, and you never told me. You never told me! I didn't know!) "His brother is the true Boy-Who-Lived. Harry Potter."

Goyle's blood went cold. Harry was nice to him. They weren't friends, they didn't seek each other out or anything, but he read better than Binns and Harry had sometimes helped him with his homework and he'd brought him to the Hospital Wing that one time. He'd been glad that Harry wasn't his lord's enemy, because that would mean that Harry would die and he didn't want that to happen.

"You live with this boy," Voldemort snarled. "You share his dormitory. You have for years! And yet you could not acquire any blood from him? _Crucio!_"

Pain blotted out the world.

* * *

><p>The Grangers sprinted forward so quickly that they left a breeze in their wake. Harry blinked after them, momentarily stunned that mere mortals could move so fast, before his senses returned. The boy followed, reaching the horse's side just as it slowed to a halt.<p>

Jean and David were babbling, their questions overlapping into incoherency, but Harry caught the gist of them. Where were you? Are you all right? Who is this? How can we thank him? What happened? Do you need Tylenol, Aspirin, anything? Do you need to lie down? And repeated again and again: Are you all right?

Harry fought down a brief surge of jealousy. Remus was wonderful, but what he would have _given_ for parents like this as a kid. Would Lily and James be like this if they were still alive? It seemed most probable, if Remus and Sirius's stories were any indication.

The knight swung himself off the horse, helped Hermione dismount. The normally talkative girl hadn't said anything, which really should have been Harry's (and the Grangers') first clue. But he was too relieved by his friend's return (especially at such a convenient time) to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hermione's parents, though, were a bit more observant.

"Hermione? What's going on?"

This is not she.

The Muggles started. They had never heard the knight's not-voice rising like blood and thought into their minds. Their skulls had never been filled with words that were more than half concept instead of sound. Not to mention that the message itself was rather strange, as that was clearly Hermione standing there ever so quietly.

Except there was something wrong with the eyes; admittedly, it was dark even with the streetlamps, but Hermione's eyes were somehow wrong. Harry couldn't put his finger on the source of the wrongness, just that it was there, and once he noticed it, he couldn't put it out of his mind.

Those eyes were the correct color and shape and size, but they weren't Hermione's. They weren't even human.

"Where is my daughter?" David demanded, his voice taut with strain.

She lives, the knight assured them, and shall return soon, but she may only recover in my homeland. No mortal can cure the fuga spiriti, but my kind is not mortal. The orange eyes seemed to glow with the same inhuman force as not-Hermione. Yet she will not be ready to return until the Spider has called the children back into his web.

"What the hell does that mean?" Jean looked ready to jump on the knight and strangle him, armor and all.

She is recuperating from an attack and cannot return to this plane until school begins, hence this changeling so that the Spider might not notice anything amiss.

"Take us to her."

I cannot. Rest assured, though, that your daughter is safe, for she is _ours_. The knight's not-voice deepened into a growl on the last word. His eyes burned with orange fire, a flame that sparked in the changeling's gaze as well.

The Grangers did not seem particularly assured by that.

"Take us to her," Jean repeated.

The orange eyes softened. I cannot. I am sorry.

Fast and fluid as the wind, the knight leapt onto his horse. The beast didn't so much as twitch despite the sudden increase in weight. The changeling can tell you of your daughter's progress. For now, she merely sleeps. The changeling shall tell you when that changes.

"Don't you dare—" Jean began, lunging for the horse's stirrups. The horse danced away.

I _am_ sorry.

The horse reared, its silhouette stark against the orange glow of the streetlamps. The muscles of its hind legs bunched, then it leapt into the air, hooves pounding against a path invisible and intangible to mortals. Jean lunged at it again, as did her husband. His hands grasped at the horse's tail, but the fine hairs flowed through his fingers like water or the breeze.

It was gone. Perhaps the darkness had swallowed it. Perhaps it had vanished from the plane, bearing its rider to their homeland. Harry didn't know, didn't care. If the steed and its frustratingly cryptic rider weren't in the Otherworld now, they would be soon.

But without the knight to provide a focus for their anger, the Grangers had to find another scapegoat. As one, they rounded on Harry. The boy stepped back involuntarily, bracing himself against the much-deserved onslaught.

The changeling, perhaps just following (its? Her?) programming, perhaps consciously choosing to save his bacon, asked, "Would you like more news of the Messenger?"

The sound of Hermione's voice stole the wind from David and Jean's sails. "Is that what you call her?"

"Yes," the changeling replied. "Among other things. Maiden of Air, Maker of the Wards, Heiress of Salazar Slytherin."

Jean's eye twitched. Harry gulped. He really was not looking forward to explaining just why Hermione had so many titles among other dimensional beings. Or maybe he'd get lucky and the changeling would tell them what they needed to know without freaking them out so badly that they withdrew Hermione from Hogwarts, snapped her wand, and fled to Australia under assumed names. Either was possible.

"And how is she doing?"

"She sleeps," was the simple response. "She will be well."

"And you can't take us to her either?" The question was directed at the changeling, but Jean's eyes flickered towards Harry. The boy held up his hands, head shaking wildly. No, he could not at all bring them to the Otherworld.

At least he had good news. He could go back to the others and tell them what was going on, tell them about the changeling and Hermione's diagnosis. Babbling that as his excuse, the boy fled before the Grangers could recover enough to rip him a new one.

It was easy to enchant a trio of parchment planes to fly into his friends' houses, into their bedroom windows. The parchments bore a short message explaining everything, including the Grangers' ire and that they should perhaps expect some angry communications from the two Muggles. Then he popped back to the forest, but Sirius, Dudley, and Saysa were gone. He'd expected Dudley to have left—Sirius wouldn't let him stay up too much longer—but the other two surprised him. Wand at the ready, he cast a few spells. Fear tightened his throat, for what if Dumbledore had come back? But his spells revealed nothing, so he activated his Portkey to transport to Founder's Isle. Sure enough, Saysa's vast bulk greeted him, her scales shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

"**Do you know of the changeling?"** the basilisk asked.

"**Yes. I was there when the knight brought it to Hermione's parents. They're with it now."**

Saysa shifted. She'd met Hermione's parents, was fond of them both. **"Are they all right?"**

"**Not really, but that's to be expected.**" Harry sighed. **"I think that the changeling will help, though, because she can give them information about Hermione's status. I've told the other three, so they know about the changeling too. I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to go visiting the Grangers just for news."**

"**What of the ambassadors?"**

"**What?"**

"**The ambassadors,**" Saysa repeated. **"We originally planned to meet during the springtime, your spring break, but should we still do so without a complete group?"**

Harry groaned. His head ached, his limbs weighed him down. He just wanted to sleep. **"I don't know. I just don't know."** He rubbed at his temples.

"**We can discuss it tomorrow when the others are here," **Saysa murmured. Her head nuzzled Harry's chest, her scales surprisingly soft and warm. **"Now go rest, Harry. There is nothing more you can do."**

* * *

><p>Confession time: I have too much going on in this book to fit the meeting with the ambassadors in. That'll just have to wait. *sighs* It's a pacing thing.<p>

Another confession: I really didn't intend to be this late, or late at all. It was supposed to be up on the 2nd, and I'm really sorry that it wasn't. The next chapter, though WILL be up on August 23. I don't have any more travels messing my writing schedule up, so it'll actually be on time this time.

Three cheers for Daphne, who stayed sane and rational when everyone else was freaking out. Hip hip hooray!

Thank you guys for putting up with me. You're great!

-Antares


	22. Hermione's Reflection

_At first, some wondered if the Lady could be a Fae changeling. When she shape-shifted back to her normal form, though, they were quickly put to rights._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_The History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

In the end, they opted not to hold the meeting without Hermione.

There were several reasons for their choice: she would freak out if they tried to do something so important without her (this was, after all, a girl who made them start their exam preparations three months beforehand); they could hardly pass the changeling off as Pallas Dhar, which would possibly offend the ambassadors even more than rescheduling the meeting entirely; they were so concerned about their friend that they could hardly focus on their schoolwork, much less long and arduous politics with a group of potentially volatile potential allies; and Hermione probably had a whole list of ideas that she had intended to bring up. With all these things in mind, they drafted a set of letters explaining that Truth's Messenger had been gravely wounded by the Spider and requesting that they reschedule for mid to late summer and hinting that this was a take it or leave it kind of deal.

Without the meeting to anticipate, the rest of spring break dragged on for those in the know. Every day, the five would stop by the Grangers' house (usually while the adults were at work. No one had any desire to be drafted into re-explaining why, exactly, Hermione was currently in an extra-dimensional hospital) to consult the changeling. Every day, the changeling's answer was the same: "She recovers but cannot yet return. She still sleeps most of the day away." It would give more details if pressed, information about what Hermione was eating (which caused a great deal of alarm among the Ravenclaw's friends. What was she thinking, eating Fae food?) and the time difference between worlds and estimates about how much longer this would take, but everyone found the changeling a wee bit creepy.

They felt very, very sorry for the Grangers. After all, they had to live with it.

The Grangers… well, they were obviously a concern. Hermione had never told them the complete truth, just the accurate but not entirely complete information about them running a political newspaper in their spare time. Until recently, the Grangers had approved, had even suggested ideas for articles. They had had no idea just how bad things were in the wizarding world.

Their daughter's near-death as she tied that month's issues onto owls' legs was a rather rude awakening.

Harry, being the leader, was forced to go back to them the day after Hermione was taken. The resultant conversation had been… exceptionally… _unpleasant_ for him. There were tears involved, and shouts and threats and lies, and they eventually retreated to lick their wounds. They had to; there was no way that they could go on. So Harry came back that night, meek and miserable, too tired to protest. Fortunately, the Grangers were too, and they believed him when he said that no one in their group had had any idea that anyone would actually try to kill them for their actions. They believed him again when he said that they would no longer continue the VV, that they had learned their lesson about dabbling in politics as children. Oh, the guilt made him want to curl up and _cry_ as it writhed in his gut, but he said it, and they believed him.

Some things were bigger than him.

He could not sleep that night. All he could do was curl around his pillow and gaze at the wall with sightless eyes.

Spring break passed in a haze of misery. They got their homework done, finished the next issue of Better than Binns, but could scarcely bear to write more for the _Vox Veritatis._ The next month's edition would be smaller than usual, noticeably so, and none of its articles would bear the name of Pallas Dhar. When Harry wasn't too unhappy to think, he noted that the lack of Dhar articles was a good thing, that it would convince Dumbledore (like he needed more convincing!) that Air really was dead.

Blaise's Dreams confirmed that Dumbledore believed himself successful. He saw the twisted phoenix crowing in triumph over the 'corpse' of a tiny owl, but the owl snuck away when its attacker wasn't looking. The phoenix kept crowing, laughing at the group of beasts—serpent, hound, wolf, raven, ram, jaguar, fox—before it. It kept laughing until the owl plunged her talons into the firebird's heart.

The Dreams gave him a grim sort of satisfaction, a satisfaction that only increased when Endymion vanished one morning. The next day, Blaise and his mother received word that the man was in France, filing for divorce. Anath's heart nearly failed her. Blaise's face, eager as it was to break into a smile, nearly failed him.

Because of Endymion's escape, though, he was by far the least gloomy when the friends and the changeling boarded the Hogwarts Express. His relatively good mood was short-lived, however, as that was when Luna Lovegood caught up with them.

Blaise had a split second to wonder if anyone had told the younger Ravenclaw about Hermione's absence before she noticed the changeling. Silvery eyes went even wider than normal, nearly bulging out of their sockets. An issue of the _Quibbler_ fell from her slack hands.

"What happened?" Luna squeaked.

Harry groaned. "No one told you?"

"No," she whispered, still staring at the Hermione lookalike.

Harry groaned again. "Too many people here," he mumbled.

"Write it down," Daphne suggested, almost too quietly for them to hear.

"What? Are you mad?"

"Write it down, show it to Luna, and then burn it."

"Oh. Not mad, then."

"Put some parchment in the _Quibbler_. It'll look like you're doing the crossword." Daphne raised her voice. "Is that the newest issue, Luna?"

"Yes. Yes it is. Would you like to do the rune crossword? I know Ancient Runes is one of your favorite classes." To Luna's credit, her voice didn't quaver at all. She handed Daphne the magazine. The older girl accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

They eventually found a compartment that was otherwise empty, but no one was entirely comfortable discussing sensitive information aloud in a crowded train, so Daphne proceeded with her plan. She plucked a piece of parchment from her back, stuck it into the _Quibbler's _pages, and began to scribble away while Blaise regaled everyone with the story of his stepfather's escape. Well, an edited version, at least. It wouldn't do for him to boast of his own role.

But, since none of them could (or would, rather. They could have theoretically found an isolated compartment and enchanted it with spells for privacy, falling silent whenever an outsider wandered through their little chamber) discuss what they really wanted to talk about, the train ride dragged on and on. None of them would admit it, but they were still a bit leery of the changeling. If it could give them information about Hermione (which it did, telling them that she was just a bit stronger but there had been no real change), it could easily give the Fae queens intelligence on them. The six friends tried to talk about other things—the upcoming final task for the Tournament of Houses, Better than Binns, Mark's somewhat biased autobiography that had finally been published—but conversation trailed, lapsing often into awkward silence which only the changeling didn't mind.

Needless to say, they were all relieved when they finally arrived back at Hogwarts.

A whole new set of problems began then, though. Each House team had independently decided that the dinner after coming back from spring break would be a good time for a meeting, so Daphne, Luna, and the changeling were off to their respective meeting places (usually empty classes or, in the case of Hufflepuff, Professor Sprout's office). Luna kept casting wide-eyed glances at the changeling, hoping that it wouldn't mess up.

It didn't. It was quieter than Hermione would have been, but everyone else was so loud that no one but Luna noticed. The second year almost sagged with relief when no one commented on 'Hermione's' odd standoffishness.

On their way back to Ravenclaw Tower, she pulled the changeling aside for what was supposedly a bathroom break but really was an attempt to stifle her own worries. "Do you know Hermione's schedule?" she asked.

"Yes. The Lightning Speaker and his friends visited often, and they had me memorize everything I need to know to impersonate Hermione until her return. The Sorting Hat helped as well."

"Oh, goody." A frown. "Everything? What are you going to do about homework?"

"I have Hermione's handwriting, and the Lightning Speaker is familiar enough with the course materials and with Hermione's writing style to dictate to me."

Harry would be doing Hermione's homework? Luna imagined her friend's reaction to _that_ and winced. She hoped to be very far away when the older girl found out. Australia, perhaps, or Peru. There were all sorts of interesting creatures in Australia and Peru.

"That's also good. How is she doing now?"

"She is awake."

Luna blinked. She and the others knew that Hermione had been awake on and off, but she didn't know if anyone had actually been in contact with the changeling during the Ravenclaw's brief periods of consciousness. "Do you have any way of talking with her?"

"I am afraid not."

Luna looked at the face, so familiar and yet so strange. Hermione's eyes were more human, her hair less wild, her expression more telling. The changeling seemed almost like a statue of Hermione come to life—which, in a way, it was.

No one but the full-blooded Fae knew for certain just how changelings were made. Human folktales told of them, of babies snatched in the night and replaced by constructs of bark and sap that tormented the parents. Those stories were confused, though, as sometimes they told about Fae babies or even adult Fae in baby form who were left in place of the human children. Among humans, therefore, the term 'changeling' lumped together three distinct entities: true changeling, like the one running its fingers through its hair; infant Fae whose parents passed the inevitably colicky brat off to some poor, unsuspecting mortal until the kid grew out of it; and adult shape-shifters, who must have been very, very, very bored. Thanks to this confusion of terms, any research on changelings would be more complicated than it ought to be, and Luna didn't know much about them from her Fae-blooded relatives.

What she did know, though, made her wince.

"I'm sorry."

Not-Hermione blinked at her, confused. "Have I done something wrong? Has my act not been sufficient?"

Luna shook her head. "No, it's nothing like that. I am just very sorry that I haven't been that nice to you." She stuck out her hand. "My name is Luna Lovegood. I am thirteen years old and a member of Ravenclaw House. My daddy edits the _Quibbler._ What's your name?"

The changeling stared at her, its—_her,_ Luna decided, because Hermione was a girl and this one was wearing her face—expression completely dumbfounded. "I do not have a name except that of Hermione Jane Granger."

"Then you can pick one out," Luna chirped.

The changeling's brow crinkled in confusion.

"And what is your favorite color? Do you like the Grangers? Do you like Hermione's friends? Do you like being Hermione? What do you think of Hogwarts? I like Hogwarts. I think it's very pretty. Do you think so too?"

The changeling stared. Luna chattered on.

"What about this world? I know it must be very different from the Otherworld. Do you like it here? I hope so, but even if you don't, you haven't seen all of it yet. This is a big, beautiful world. You should see more of it, like Australia or Peru. Or if you don't like traveling you can read about them in the _Quibbler._" Luna's eyes bulged with excitement. "Oh, this issue has a lovely article on the magical properties of platypus venom. Do you know what platypuses—or platypodes, or platypi, I can never remember—are?"

Confronted with a question about fact instead of opinion, the relieved changeling shook her head.

"That's too bad," Luna decreed, "as platy…puses are wonderful. They're so fluffy and cute, but they have duckbills. Duckbills! And they lay eggs!"

"I have seen pictures of ducks," the changeling lamely volunteered.

"But have you ever seen a real duck?"

"I do not believe so, no."

Luna patted the startled changeling on her arm. "Then we shall just have to fix that, shan't we?"

The poor changeling clearly had no idea how to react to that. That was all right, though. Luna could be patient. She didn't know this changeling very well, but she already liked it—her—and what else were friends for?

* * *

><p>When the owls from the ambassadors arrived at Founder's Isle, Sirius and Dudley were just relieved that they didn't carry Howlers. The former had received more than his share of the shrieking letters at Hogwarts; the latter had obviously never been sent an enchanted epistle, but he'd heard enough of Sirius's stories to know just how unpleasant they were. When they told Saysa about their worries, though, she gave them an odd look and asked if they really thought that highly trained politicians arranging a meeting that had to remain secret from the world at large would use a form of communication that spilled the metaphorical beans to anyone within shouting range. When she put it that way, the males couldn't help their embarrassment.<p>

Neville-as-Alexander privately confessed to them that he'd half-expected at least one Howler himself. Dudley, at least, felt a little bit better after that.

The letters came attached to owls as diverse as the diplomats themselves, some graceful and slender, others bluff and stocky, but each message contained much the same reaction: no one appreciated the delay, and more than one pointed out that the humans had complained about that earlier, but if Truth's Messenger really was recovering from a near-fatal blow, the humans were probably justified in putting things off until summer. They would all come to the new date.

"Good," Remus said when he read the epistles. "Tyr will probably be back by then, and I'd rather have him represent us werewolves than me."

"Any news from him?" Harry asked. "Last I heard, he was in Siberia."

"Same here. That was a while ago, though. I bet he's in Alaska by now."

"Not necessarily. I've heard that Siberia has a high werewolf population."

"Yes, but he'd been in Siberia a while, right? And he wrote that word has spread through the werewolf communities that someone is coming around with the cure, so everyone ought to be ready for when he arrives. The Americas won't take him as much time."

Harry's brow furrowed. "Are you sure? I think that their werewolf populations are more scattered, just as a general rule of thumb."

"But like I said, they know to gather when they hear Tyr is in the area. In Europe, he had to hunt down stragglers who'd escaped the camps because they didn't know he even existed. Same with Australia and New Zealand. And weren't Asia and Africa pretty much all stragglers? No. He won't take long in the Americas."

"This isn't alerting the authorities, is it?" Neville worried.

"Tyr hasn't said anything," Remus replied. "Though," he added, thinking of Tonks, "it wouldn't be so bad if he could make contact with the right authorities…."

Blaise and Harry smirked.

"Yes. Well." Remus flushed. "Did anyone send you their schedules?"

"The dwarves and goblins did," Harry answered. "The veela sent a few suggested dates. I don't know if the centaurs have schedules like the others do, and we can't tell with the merfolk, but I think that they'll be open to almost anything. They were the easiest to schedule in for the original meeting."

He wished Hermione were there. She was without a doubt the most organized of the five friends. She could have read over the letters once, then come up with a date that would satisfy everybody. The whole ordeal would be over in five minutes. But Hermione was gone, lost in the lands of the Fae until her recovery.

When he got back to Hogwarts, the first thing he did was hunt down the changeling. "No news," it—or she, as Luna insisted on referring to the construct as a female. She was probably right in claiming that use of the pronoun 'it' was inaccurate and morally wrong—said. "She is exactly as she was five hours ago, though she woke briefly. It was a slightly longer period of lucidity than usual, but I have told her that the average length is growing."

Harry sighed and thanked her. He would have left then, but Luna believed that the changeling could 'benefit from discovering and embracing her individual identity' and that it was rude to merely use her as a tool for watching after their friend. Once again, Harry had to acknowledge that she was right.

"What d'you think of Hogwarts? Not Hermione, you."

"I find it agreeable, though I dislike the cold iron in the walls." The changeling gave a tiny shudder, one of the first displays of _her_ emotions rather than what she thought Hermione should experience. "This is a fascinating world, and learning about it is an efficient use of time."

"Right." Harry wondered if this was some glimmer of individuality or if the changeling was still playing Hermione. "I've always liked learning myself, though I've obviously never minded the cold iron."

For a second, he thought that the Hermione impersonator would say something, but she thought better of it at the last second. Harry waited a moment longer, just in case she changed her mind again, but the changeling just stared at him with its—her—inscrutable brown eyes. Harry fidgeted. "Er—did you want to come with one of us on the full moon night? For the rath-binding ritual, I mean. Or we could teach you to do it."

For the first time, honest shock widened those brown eyes. The resemblance to Hermione intensified, triggering a wave of pain in Harry's gut. He swallowed once, hard.

"I am uncertain how to respond."

"That's all right," Harry assured her. "You've still got a week to decide. But you'll think about it?"

A nod, jerky and uncertain. "I will consider it."

"Good." Harry nodded his goodbye before making his way back to the Slytherin Common Room, where his House team was engaged in yet another debate about the nature of the Hogwarts Task and their optimal approach to it. As most of these debates tended to devolve into shouting matches—especially now, with the task so close—Harry ignored the drama in favor of grabbing a pair of books, some parchment, and heading for the Library.

One week later, the changeling followed Harry to his latest clearing. "Right," the boy mumbled, conscious of his audience. "I don't suppose you've seen this before on any of your other—er—assignments?"

"I have had no other assignments. I was created to impersonate Hermione, and when that task is complete, I shall return to the greenwood that bore me."

Harry was surprised by the pang that thought brought him. Was the changeling creepy? Yep. But it didn't seem fair that she had been brought to life for a single month, give or take a few days, before dying. No, not right at all. The thought made his stomach twist.

What was he supposed to say to something like that. 'Oh, I'm sorry that you were created as a tool which will be destroyed after its mission is complete'? So, rather than face the awkwardness of that conversation, he changed the subject to something more pleasant: explaining the ritual as he went through it. The changeling watched, her gaze less human than ever before as the Fae power flooded the world. Yep, definitely creepy.

Then an all-too-human expression of shock washed the otherworldliness away. Brown eyes looked up. Harry followed her gaze, groaned softly. Great, the knight. Just what he needed, another encounter with his 'allies.'

"Goodbye, Harry," the changeling murmured. "Please say goodbye to Luna for me as well."

"What?" the boy asked blankly, turning to face her.

With his face turned away, Harry missed the horseman landing, his steed slowing to a halt. He did not notice the small, slender figure holding tight to the Fae's waist.

He did notice when Hermione flung herself off the horse and enveloped him in a hug.

* * *

><p>Okay, there should be 2-3 chapters and an epilogue before the next book, which will contain the long-awaited diplomatic meetings, Voldemort, and Tonks becoming a werewolf. And stuff. *needs ideas*<p>

Next update: September 13.

Thank you, all my wonderful reviewers. I'm sorry I've been crap about answering you guys. Have you ever had one of those times where you're just so, so tired even though you have no good reason? Yeah, that's been the past month, and it doesn't help that I've had a few unexpected things going on. I'll try to answer everyone from this chapter and the last one on Monday and Tuesday. Until then, I bid thee all adieu!

-Antares


	23. On the Quidditch Pitch

_The centaurs, as per their custom, arranged a series of physical competitions for their guests._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh, _(_History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

"Hermione!" Harry cried, embracing her in return. Had he been any taller or she any shorter, he would have swung her around in circles like he'd seen people do in movies, but they were both in their natural forms. Pollux could have swung Pallas around; Harry had to content himself with clinging tight to his friend, his dear friend, and never wanting to let go again.

Hermione hugged him back, of course, her arms strong around his trunk. "I missed you," she whispered. Something small and wet dripped onto Harry's shoulder. "All of you. And Mum and Dad, what about Mum and Dad…?" She tried to step away, but Harry wasn't ready to let her go yet. When she stepped backwards, he followed with a forward step that nearly landed on her toes.

"Your parents are fine," Harry assured her. The Ravenclaw's hair tickled his face. It was bushier than usual, probably because its owner had spent so much time sleeping lately. "They're mad as a nest of hornets and scared stiff for you, but they're fine."

Hermione's sigh rattled in her throat. "I wouldn't call that fine, exactly," she murmured. Slender hands grasped Harry's shoulders, gently pushed him away. "Poor Mum and Dad. Did they know about the changeling, or did she manage to fool them?"

"They were aware that we are different individuals," the changeling announced.

Hermione started; she clearly hadn't noticed her doppleganger. "Oh! I'm sorry." The Ravenclaw stuck out a hand. "I'm Hermione Granger, as you know. Thank you for… for covering for me." She blinked a few times, clearly bemused, but more grateful than anything else.

"You are very welcome," the changeling intoned. She reached out with hesitant, trembling fingers, grasped Hermione's offered hand. As they touched, the changeling's appearance changed. Starting with the place their fingers met, ruddy brown spread over the changeling's skin, which became rougher and lost much of its light covering of hair. The features changed, cheekbones widening, chin tapering to a sharp point. The hair smoothed out into a cascade of thick brown locks that reached past her waist. Large, acorn-colored eyes blinked rapidly.

Hermione grasped the construct's wrist. "Cousin," she intoned, "I hereby take you into my service and place you under my protection."

"Huh?" Harry gawked.

I give her to you, the knight replied. She is yours.

Hermione nodded, gracious as a queen, and for the first time Harry became aware of the differences in her. They were very minor, especially in the dim dusk light, but they were nonetheless there. Her eyes had grown brighter, were now flecked with—Harry squinted, not sure if he was imagining things—the tiniest flecks of orange. There was something else, too, but the Slytherin couldn't put his finger on it.

But the flecks of orange were enough to alert him that something was very, very wrong. Small though they were, they seemed enormous, all-encompassing.

"Hermione," he whispered, "what happened to you?"

She sighed again. "A human couldn't survive that curse," she explained softly, sadly. "Not even in the Otherworld. So he—isn't that just _typical._" For the knight had vanished without a sound. Hermione huffed, hands on her hips. "He gave me a blood transfer."

Harry's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "What?"

"I did not know," the changeling whispered.

"I don't think you were supposed to," Hermione confessed.

Harry gaped at her, jaw slack, eyes still bulging. Those eyes followed the Ravenclaw's hands as they ghosted up to her ears, brushed aside the covering of bushy hair. Sure enough, a tiny point—so small, in fact, that Harry would never have noticed it if he hadn't suspected its reality beforehand, that he would never have thought odd if he hadn't seen Hermione's old ears—graced their top. It was nowhere as near as prominent as the Queens', but something well within the range of human variation. If he hadn't known what the slight sharpness meant, he wouldn't have blinked twice at such ears.

But he did know what that meant. At least, he had an idea.

"I met Niamh there," the girl mumbled, not meeting her friend's stupefied gaze. "Luna's ancestor. She told me that Luna's mum had ears like this."

"They made you part Fae?" Harry whispered.

"Only a little," Hermione assured him. "Just enough to ensure my survival. Not enough to…." She swallowed hard. "I'm still me. I just have better night vision and my magical affinities have changed some—they say I'll be better at illusions now and not so good at Potions—and I'll be mildly allergic to cold iron—but I'm still _me._" And sure enough, those pleading eyes were classic Hermione despite the sunset-colored speckles.

Harry nodded, recovered his voice. "Right. I know. I mean—it's just a shock, that is, to get you back and find out what they had to do, though I suppose this is why you could eat their food." He nodded. "It's not dangerous for you. Right. But—Hermione, did you really think I'd care? I'm just glad to have you back. I don't give a rotted fish head about your Potions grade."

Hermione smiled weakly. In a painfully obvious attempt to change the subject, she commented, "I do, though. Obviously."

"Obviously," Harry repeated. Then, because he'd missed her so, so much, he grabbed her in another embrace.

They held each other for several long moments, just taking comfort from the other's presence. Finally the still-unnamed changeling gave a little cough. Faces alight, the two friends separated. "Sorry," Harry mumbled. "It's just—I missed her."

"I know. You have said so several times."

Harry smiled. "I have, haven't I." He started. "The others! They've missed you just as much—"

"—and so have my parents," Hermione interrupted. "Harry could you and—I'm sorry. I never got your name?"

"I have not selected one yet," the changeling confessed.

"Oh." Hermione pulled up short. "That's a pity. But could the two of you please tell the others? I have to talk with Mum and Dad. They must be out of their minds with worry."

Harry grinned. "Consider it done."

"Right." Hermione stepped back, glanced at the changeling. "Would you like to come with?"

The changeling blinked. "I am uncertain."

"Well, then I think you should," Hermione said. "I was thinking that you could maybe stay with Mum and Dad while I finish up the school year. If you want, I'll send you copies of my notes."

The changeling stared. "If that is what you wish."

Hermione sighed; this was going to take longer than she'd expected. "All right. Harry, can you make us a Portkey?"

"Of course." He grabbed a twig from the ground, muttered the spell, and handed it off to his friend. "It'll go off in two minutes. I'm going to—wait, where should we meet? The others'll want to see you too."

"I don't think Mum and Dad will let me go until three in the morning, if that," Hermione admitted. "Can we just talk together after breakfast tomorrow?"

Harry froze. Tomorrow. Oh dear.

"Harry?"

"Er…Hermione? D'you know how long you spent in the Otherworld?"

Her expression grew puzzled. "They didn't give me an exact date, no."

"Yes. Well. It's been a month, and we went to break and back, and do you remember how the professors insisted we do the Hogwarts Task before it's time to study for exams?"

Hermione blanched. "It's tomorrow?"

"Yes." Then, figuring that she couldn't possibly kill him in the half-minute or so they had left, he added, "Also, I had to do your homework while you were gone."

"_What?!"_

The changeling grabbed the Portkey stick. Hermione lunged forward, eyes alight, but the magic tugged at her navel and she was gone, off to her parents' house. Harry sighed, sagged with relief.

Then he wanted to hit himself. If the changeling was with Hermione, who would impersonate her tonight? He groaned, wondering why he hadn't thought of that earlier. Probably, the boy concluded, because Hermione was back.

At that thought, the grin returned to his face. Hermione was back. Hermione, his friend, a dear friend, was alive and well and back, and he could see her again and all five of them could be together just laughing and talking. Life was good.

So with that in mind, he set off to find the others.

* * *

><p>Not for the first time, Daphne cursed the secrecy in which she and her friends had to work.<p>

She understood the necessity of playing like nothing was wrong, like she and the others were just schoolchildren with grandiose, naïve ambitions and a bestselling collection of notes. She understood that if Dumbledore or any of his cronies—and probably most Ministry employees as well, not to mention the Death Eaters' reactions if they learned who had spilled the beans on their master's shameful heritage—found out who they were, the game would end. She knew that someone, perhaps everyone, would die if they were exposed.

That didn't stop her from hating it. Not at moments like these, when the real Hermione, not her changeling doppelganger, sat down at the Ravenclaw table for breakfast for the first time in almost a month.

Daphne considered her options as she buttered her croissant. She could stay here and wait to greet her friend until the final Task was complete. That was her least favorite option. No, what could it hurt if she went over right after breakfast? She could act casual, pretend that nothing was different, keep her excitement and happiness under wraps. Hermione, she felt confident, could do the same.

With that in mind, the Slytherin girl ate her croissant more quickly than usual. Anyone who noticed could pass it off as nerves before today's task. Nothing suspicious about that.

Breathe in, breathe out. Her parents had taught her the calming breath exercises almost before she could walk. It was a bit embarrassing to have to return to them now, but she couldn't risk betraying anything. Not when half the eyes in the Great Hall fixated on the Slytherin visiting a Ravenclaw mere hours before the last Task of the Tournament of Houses.

Act casual. "Good morning, Hermione. Are you ready for the task?"

The girl winced. "No," she confessed, hands wringing. Daphne silently cursed herself; of _course _this would cause her friend to freak out. "I haven't—I've barely _prepared_, I don't know what the task is going to be, what if we—"

Daphne cut her off. "If you fail in the task, people will still remember how you drove away the dementor last time. That was an incredible feat of magic, Hermione. No one will think any less of you." Which was, of course, a blatant lie. The magical world was fickle a best. But there was no point in letting Hermione work herself into a panic.

"Thank you," the older girl mumbled. Her fists clenched, nails digging into palms. "But I'm still…I didn't get much sleep last night." She yawned as though to punctuate her statement.

Daphne nodded. "Neither did I. I doubt that anyone involved in the Tournament of Houses slept well last night."

"I did," Luna announced.

"I didn't," Hermione repeated. She caught Daphne's eye. "In fact, I had to take a late-night walk just to calm down. It took forever before I could go back to my dorm."

Ah, so that was her excuse for not retiring to bed until everyone else was asleep. A good lie, plausible and capable of inspiring sympathy. Daphne nodded her approval.

"I had a bit of trouble sleeping myself for much the same reason." Which was true. It had been agony to lie in bed knowing that her friend, who had been on the verge of death for close to a month and had only survived by being changed in ways she didn't understand (ways like the orange-flecked eyes watching her intently), was so close and yet so far.

Hermione winced. "Sorry."

Daphne frowned. "No, don't be. It wasn't your fault, Hermione. If you want to blame anyone, blame the Headmaster. He is the one who came up with this idea."

Translation: did you ask to be cursed? No? Then put the blame where it belongs: on Albus too-many-names-and-titles Dumbledore.

"I know," Hermione sighed. "It's just rather hard, when…." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. We'll have to talk about it later, I suppose."

"Probably," Luna agreed. "Would you like another croissant?"

"I think so, yes. Thank you."

"I need to wish Astoria luck," Daphne said. It was true. She really did need to speak with her sister before the Hogwarts Task. "Good luck to you too, Hermione."

"And you as well, Daphne."

Astoria was sitting with the rest of her team, going over last-minute details. The Hufflepuffs quieted down as Daphne approached, probably fearing that she had come as a spy (as if she would betray her baby sister for her House! Her obnoxious, waste-of-space brother, yes, but never Tori), but the girl in question perked right up. "Hi Daphne."

"Hello Astoria. Do you think you are ready for the Final Task?"

Tori nodded, curls bobbing. "Yeah. I just wish we knew what we had to do."

"As do I," her sister grumbled.

"What about you?"

"I think my team is ready, though like you, I wish the headmaster had told us what we have to do. 'Go to the Quidditch pitch at ten o'clock' isn't very much in way of instruction."

Daphne grimaced. "Personally, I think he enjoys the rumors running rampant. He probably enjoys laughing at all the ridiculous things our fellow students come up with."

"So do I," Tori joked. "And don't you too?"

Her sister allowed herself a slight smile. "Sometimes, yes, but I think I would be more amused if I knew the punch line."

One of Astoria's Housemates cleared her throat. Daphne took the hint. "Would you like my sister back?"

The Hufflepuff nodded, red in the cheeks. "Sorry. I know you're family and all, but Cedric just pointed something really important out and, well, I think we need to keep talking, so could you please…?"

"Of course," Daphne consented graciously. "Good luck to you. You've put up an excellent fight so far. I look forward to seeing who will win."

Tori rolled her eyes at the exaggerated courtesy but said nothing. Her fellow Hufflepuffs seemed rather flattered, and everyone within earshot wished Daphne luck as she made her way back to the Slytherins, who had been glaring at her impatiently as she talked with the other girls.

"What was that about?" Montague demanded.

"I wished Hermione and Astoria luck," Daphne explained unrepentantly. "After all, this is meant to be a friendly competition, not a fight to the death."

Montague's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but Daphne was a high-ranking member of their House. The older girl said nothing more.

For the next hour and a half, the Slytherins speculated wildly as to what could possibly be going on. More dangerous magical creatures? A platoon of deranged knife-wielding house-elves? What could possibly combine courage, cunning, compassion, and cleverness into a task to end all tasks? They didn't know, and that made them increasingly testy as time went on. No matter how many times Daphne reminded her Housemates that this was just a game, it's not like the losers would be burned at stake or used as fertilizer in the greenhouses, they insisted on working themselves into a fit at the thought of losing to Gryffindor—or worse yet, Hufflepuff.

As the team members went through strategy, ordinary students finished last-minute preparations of their own: bets. The Weasley twins had, much to the disapproval of their brother the Head Boy, started a gambling ring of which they were the bookkeepers. It contained bets on everything from what the task might be (the knife-wielding house-elves were currently at twenty-two to one odds. This was, after all, the product of one Albus Dumbledore's imagination) to who would lose to how long the firsties would spend in the infirmary. Daphne was disgusted to see Blaise approach the two Gryffindors and hand over a few coins.

In Blaise's defense, though, he'd only spent a few Knuts, something he pointed out to Daphne after coming back to the table.

Soon it was a quarter to ten. The students trickled out of the Great Hall into the grounds, making a living trail towards the Quidditch pitch. Even from a distance, they could see that it had changed. Someone had raised walls around it, thick, crude stones arranged in a perfect circle.

The stands had been segregated: the staff had their own box, and all the other seats had been died blue, red, green, or yellow. Daphne snorted. Ah, yes, 'promoting cooperation and kinship between the Houses' indeed. Yes, clearly, separating them from one another during the Hogwarts Task was just the sort of thing that would lead to unity.

Really, who did Dumbledore think he was fooling?

Or perhaps, she admitted to herself, the seating was more appropriate than she liked. It was the Hogwarts Task, and the Houses were facing it divided. Reality reflected in symbolism.

The champions were expected to stand in front of their House's sections. Daphne took her place in front of the green seats, noting a gap in the stone wall in front of her. There were four gaps in all, each roughly five feet wide and placed in the dead center of the House sections. This, then, was where they would enter.

"See anything on the pitch?" muttered Montague.

"No. Not that that means anything—Dumbledore could just Portkey something into it when the Tournament starts up."

"You don't think it's another dementor, right?"

"We discussed this already," Daphne ground out. "They have already used a dementor, and it was easily defeated by a solitary third year. They won't try that again."

"Well," her teammate defended, "it's not like they said they wouldn't use one."

They might have started an argument, but Montague cut them off. "Look, there's Dumbledore."

Daphne looked. Sure enough, their illustrious headmaster was making his way into the stands. She could hardly believe she hadn't noticed him before—those ridiculous purple robes were hard to miss.

It was almost time.

The students murmured, sounding like nothing so much as a swarm of bees. Then Dumbledore raised his arms and silence fell.

"Welcome, witches and wizards, students and staff, to the Final Task of the Tournament of Houses. This trial has been carefully selected to integrate traits from all four of our noble Houses: bravery and chivalry from Gryffindor, loyalty and hard work from Hufflepuff, intelligence and learning from Ravenclaw, and cunning and ambition from Slytherin."

He paused, letting the excited students murmur amongst themselves for a few moments. When he felt he'd waited long enough, the headmaster resumed his little speech: "For obvious reasons, this was a very difficult trial to conceive. Few things require all those characteristics. However, after careful thought, I realized that there is a situation in which traits from each House are necessary. But what is this situation?"

The students were by this point literally on the edge of their seats.

Dumbledore smiled. "Combat. The Final Task, the Hogwarts Task, is a melee. The last House standing will win the Hogwarts Cup."

Protests broke out: what, then was the point of all the points? It seemed foolish to fuss so much over which House had how many points when they didn't matter anyways.

Once again, though, Dumbledore had an explanation. "That is not to say that you should not have worked so hard at gathering points. Each House will enter the field at a different time depending on how many points they possess. They may fortify their positions and iron out strategy however they wish. However, no one may attack until five minutes after the Gryffindors enter."

Oh. The students settled down. That was all right then.

"In first place, Hufflepuff has one hundred points. Hufflepuff House, enter the field!"

The badgers charged.

Daphne shifted her weight. "Does anyone know anything about creating earthwork fortifications? Perhaps we could use the rocks?"

Exactly sixty seconds after the Hufflepuffs were allowed to enter, Dumbledore announced, "Slytherin is in second place with ninety-nine points. You may enter!"

"Someone should Conjure some glass. We can get arrow slits and make a big wall out of the glass."

"Are you mad? Glass? What if it shatters?"

"We can hex it so it won't."

"Maybe incorporate Disillusionment Charms?"

"And risk bumping into each other?"

"No. We'd be close enough to see, see? But they couldn't."

"Oh. When you put it that way—is anyone good with Disillusionment Charms?"

"I am. I'll get you."

Hufflepuff's brooms zoomed into the pitch. It was a strategy which had worked well once before, they reasoned, so it probably would again.

"That's a good idea. _Accio_ brooms."

Dumbledore spoke once more. "In third place, Ravenclaw with ninety-five points. Make your preparations."

"I told you that glass was a horrible idea! Vanish it now!"

"No, a glass wall protecting us is a great idea. This way we can see and be protected at the same time!"

"Yes, and if it breaks, we'll all be sliced open and bleed out right here on the green!"

"It's not going to break, you idiot, I'm enchanting it!"

"Knock it off, Emrys, Adrian. If you don't want to stay behind the glass, you don't have to."

"Turn it to ice," Daphne suggested.

"Good plan," Adrian Pucey said, grinning with relief.

"And now for Gryffindor at ninety-two points!" Dumbledore cried. "You too may enter the field."

"Didn't you Summon our brooms, Lisette?"

"I did, yeah. You think something's wrong? Oh. Never mind. Here they are."

"We should take on the Gryffindors first. Get them out of the running."

"No, they've done worst in every task so far. Go for Hufflepuff."

"You're both wrong. We need to strengthen our defenses and let them kill each other off. Then we take down whoever's left."

"I like that plan. Let's do it."

"You think I could Summon some Bludgers and Beater's bats?" Lisette Flint wondered. "I know Marcus has a practice set."

"They never said we couldn't. Do it."

The girl grinned and obliged.

They continued in much the same vein for the next few minutes, ironing out their strategy and adding to their defenses. Then the Gryffindor contingent, led by none other than Mark Potter, ran behind their defenses.

"You can't do that," Montague protested. "It hasn't started yet!"

Mark grinned at her. "Dumbledore never said we had to start in our own section."

Well, crap. He was right.

Speaking of Dumbledore, the man was rising once again to his feet. "The five minutes have passed," he proclaimed. "Let the Final Task of the Tournament of Houses now _begin_!"

* * *

><p>Next chapter: this Tournament thing finally ends. It's due October 4 and will pave the way for the epilogue, which will in turn pave the way for book five (title unknown). I'm afraid that the changeling won't show up then, though she will in book five. Speaking of her, does anyone have name suggestions? She kind of needs one.<p>

Will try to respond to reviews by Tuesday. Until then, au revoir!

-Antares


	24. The Tournament Ends

_The example of the Lady proves that strange things might be found in the unlikeliest of places._

_-Sayern nar-Hazozh _(_The History of the Treaty)_, translated circa 1952

"Makes you wonder if he really thinks he's fooling anyone," Blaise muttered, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore's face. "I mean, really, setting them up to attack each other? In what universe does 'putting your enemies into the Hospital Wing' translate to 'cooperation'?"

"Well, I suppose if you're united against a common enemy…."

"You know what I mean, Harry." Blaise snorted.

"What's Gryffindor doing?" Goyle asked. The stocky boy had sat down next to Harry, much to his and Blaise's surprise, and neither of the other Slytherins had had the heart to turn him away. He'd looked so very sad and dejected as he sat down. Blaise and Harry had no idea why and wouldn't ask about it unless a very, very good and not-awkward opportunity presented itself (unlikely), but neither of them was mean enough to get rid of someone doing his best impression of a kicked dog. As long as he didn't start following them around like that Creevey boy did with Mark, he could sit with them.

Harry leaned forward. "Looks like they're going behind the Slytherin defenses."

Goyle frowned, brow furrowing. "But Dumbledore said to make defenses. He didn't say to sneak around."

"He didn't say not to either," Blaise pointed out. "Look at Daphne's face. She looks mad as a nest of hornets."

Harry chuckled. "I don't envy the lions who have to face her."

Blaise's pensive expression morphed into a grin. "Well, when you put it that way."

Goyle was on the edge of his seat. Any further and he would fall over. "Dumbledore's standing up," he announced. "Think it's time?"

"I think so, yes." Blaise raised an eyebrow, his natural suspicious nature reasserting itself. "You're awful chatty today."

"Uh-huh."

"The five minutes have passed," Dumbledore proclaimed. "Let the Final Task of the Tournament of Houses now _begin!_"

The spectators roared, screamed, ululated, and generally made a ruckus. Harry wouldn't be surprised if Hogsmeade residents could hear them. He whistled and clapped, palms stinging, shouting out Hermione and Daphne and even Mark's names. Mostly Hermione and Daphne, though.

Goyle bellowed, flinging his arms back in some wild gesture of approval. Unfortunately, that gesture of approval was rather too wild; his meaty wrist collided with Harry's defenseless nose. The slighter boy staggered backwards, body slamming against the chair. Spots danced in his vision as his glasses slid down. Liquid dripped from his nostrils.

"Ow."

Goyle looked ready to cry. "Sorry, Potter," he mumbled, fumbling in his robes to extract a monogrammed handkerchief. The big boy offered it to his fellow Slytherin, who took it even as he reached for his wand. Contrary to popular belief, Voldemort _had_ once possessed a nose. His memories, transmitted through the Horcrux scar, told Harry how to fix it. Harry grumbled the spell, speaking it aloud for Goyle's sake. The vessels closed up, though blood which had already escaped them drained down his nose for another few seconds. Harry caught the drops with the handkerchief before handing it back to its master and casting a quick Scourgify on his face.

"Sorry," Goyle repeated, voice nearly breaking. "I'm sorry, Potter." He snuffled.

Harry sighed. "No harm done, I suppose."

If it had been anyone but a Goyle without Malfoy pulling his strings, anybody but a notoriously dim and thoroughly miserable weakling of a wizard, Harry would have demanded the handkerchief back so he could clean it of his blood. As it were, though, he strongly doubted Goyle knew anything that could be done with a wizard's blood, and he'd have the house-elves launder it soon enough. He had nothing to worry about, no reason to fear these few drops of blood falling into Goyle of all people's hands.

He would come to regret that.

Blaise had barely noticed the other Slytherins' interaction. All his attention was on the field. Specifically, on the section of field directly in front of his seat, where the Gryffindors (one engaged in hand-to-hand with Lisette Flint, one Jelly-legged, another with fur sprouting all over her face) and Slytherins (one whose hair had come to life and was trying to strangle her, one victim of the Bat-Bogey Hex, and Lisette Flint beating the snot out of the sixth year champion) were attempting to murder each other.

Daphne was faring quite well, he was pleased to see. The witch was taking shameless advantage of the physical training she had undertaken with Firenze the centaur, dodging and ducking as she slung spells. Her hair had come loose from its practical braid and threatened to get into her eyes, but her accuracy was undiminished. Admittedly, it was rather hard to be inaccurate at such close range, especially as the others weren't nearly so good at dodging, but she was still putting up quite the fight. Even as Blaise and Harry watched, a Stunner from her wand collided with Jack Sloper, dropping him and setting Lisette Flint free to truly join the fray.

"Jack Sloper of Gryffindor is down!" Dumbledore announced. The Gryffindors booed; the Slytherins whooped their approval.

The headmaster's proclamation distracted Emrys Srijata, Slytherin's seventh year champion, at a crucial moment. Mark hit him with an _expelliarmus_ that sent his wand flying clear across the pitch. Gryffindor roared.

"Emrys Srijata of Slytherin and Lucas Summers of Hufflepuff are down!"

"So Ravenclaw's winning," Harry muttered. Hermione's House had built fortifications above their head in an attempt to nullify the Hufflepuffs' brooms. He would have Summoned Ravenclaw's brooms and taken them on in an aerial battle, but supposed that none of the birds were real Quidditch fans. Except Cho Chang, he amended. She was the House team's Seeker. But they were doing well enough, shooting spells from the small holes in their roof.

The Hufflepuffs flew closer together, hovered. Apparently they needed to hold a team meeting. One of them, probably Cedric Diggory, Conjured a floating wall of water that covered their undersides and would keep Ravenclaw (and Gryffindor and Slytherin, assuming they ever stopped fighting each other) from hitting them.

Mark Potter went flying, his head slamming against the Slytherins' ice fortress. Harry jerked forward, heartbeat drowning out the Gryffindors' cry of fury. But his brother was fine; he pushed himself up, just barely missing the follow-up curse. The boy spat something. His wand tip flared, shot forth light. In this, at least, his aim was true, and then it was Philip Harper's turn to go flying. Unlike Mark, though, he did not get up. Smiling grimly, the Gryffindor cast a Disarming Charm.

"Philip Harper of Slytherin is out!"

The Hufflepuffs had finished their discussion. As one, they zoomed over to the Gryffindor-Slytherin combat zone.

Harry blanched. "Oh no. Tell me they're not going to—"

"FIRE!" Cedric Diggory bellowed. His Housemates fired, raining down Stunners and Disarming Charms. The Slytherins and Gryffindors tried to dodge, but the Hufflepuffs followed through with another volley. Wands went flying as the students collapsed.

Harry had never heard Hufflepuff House make such a ruckus. The wall of sound that washed over him was almost a tangible, physical force in its intensity. It threatened to deafen him.

"Huff-ful-PUFF! Huff-ful-PUFF!"

Dumbledore's magically enhanced voice was nearly lost in the din. "Don't celebrate so quickly, my dear students. Ravenclaw is still in the running."

The students in the blue stands took that as their cue. "Go, go, go, go ravens! Go, go, go, go ravens!" A few of them raised their wands, shooting blue and bronze sparks into the air. Not to be outdone, the Hufflepuffs hastened for their wands to shoot black streamers and yellow light.

"They're like a bunch of Howlers," Blaise muttered.

"Right you are," Harry acquiesced. "But can you blame them?"

"Not really, I guess."

"Did Ravenclaw give up?" Goyle answered.

Harry was about to answer him when the Ravenclaws beat him to it. Birds of all shapes and sizes exploded out of the mount, wings churning the air. They charged towards the unprepared Hufflepuffs, who suddenly found themselves under attack from birds and (though Harry hadn't seen these at first due to his distance and their small size) mosquitoes. Birds and bugs swarmed them, getting in their eyes, their noses, their robes.

Something shifted in the field below.

Harry nudged Blaise, directed his attention to the slight blur in the air. "Disillusionment Charms, I bet."

The upper year Hufflepuffs began casting _Aguamenti,_ drenching the skeeters and irritating the birds. Even angrier than before, squawking their indignation to the skies, the birds redoubled their attack. The insects, though, were neutralized, at least until the Ravenclaws conjured more of them.

The Hufflepuffs took full advantage of the not-quite-a-respite, forcing their brooms to the maximum speed possible. The birds, confused, fluttered this way and that, not knowing where to go and unable to catch their prey even if they did. As the Hufflepuffs flew, zigzagging to avoid both the birds and the spells which Ravenclaw had started shooting into the sky, they fired back at their rivals.

"Stay close to the stands!" one of them, a female from her magically enhanced voice, shouted. "Stay close to the stands so Ravenclaw can't shoot!"

Whoever it was, she had a good idea. The Hufflepuffs widened their flight pattern, circling near the student-filled stands. The non-participants erupted into conversation: were the Hufflepuffs, whom everyone still thought of as abnormally lucky duffers, really using people as human shields? Really? The Hufflepuffs? That was almost Slytherin of them. But would it work, or would the Ravenclaws continue to fire?

The Ravenclaws responded by Conjuring more creatures. Ravens, to be exact. Harry idly wondered if that was a statement about their House or if Hermione had had anything to do with it. Probably the former—the latter was just plain arrogant.

But their fate had been sealed the moment the female Hufflepuff had ordered them to circle. They knocked out two badgers, one with a Stupefy and another who couldn't handle the birds, but the Hufflepuffs had too many advantages. Their brooms granted them greater speed and agility, and though the Ravenclaws were Disillusioned, a quick coating of dust rendered that edge moot.

Finally Hermione fell, Stupefied and bleeding, and the Tournament of Houses was over. The Hufflepuffs screamed and whooped and hollered loudly enough to make their previous enthusiasm sound quiet. The Ravenclaws didn't help. Several had burst into tears; others were booing or shrieking profanities or both. The Slytherins and Gryffindors were actually very quiet as they tried to figure out how Hufflepuff had won, and did this mean that they were all duffers?

Dumbledore waited a few moments for the hubbub to die down before he rose to his feet. For once, the students (at least the ones in black and yellow and blue and bronze) ignored him.

"The Tournament of Houses is complete! Congratulations, Hufflepuff. Now, let us adjoin to the celebration feast and the awards ceremony!"

"I'll second that," Blaise chuckled. "The feast, that is."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to go check on Hermione and Daphne?"

"Oh." The other boy flushed. "That seems rather obvious now."

"Quite," Harry deadpanned.

They practically had to fight their way through the crowd. Everyone else was intent on heading to the feast, or maybe they were just going to cash in their bets. There were quite a few of those. Either way, Harry and Blaise were going in the opposite direction of pretty much everyone else in the entire school save for the champions, who were being treated in a tent by the furious school matron. Pomfrey muttered under her breath as she bustled about the tent, wand flicking, interrupting her monologue only to ask students if they were still in pain. A half-dozen house-elves scurried about, rendering whatever aid they could.

Almost all the champions were conscious; _ennervate_ had probably been the first spell Pomfrey had cast on them. They waited in makeshift cots or milling about near their teammates, exchanging condolences on losing to Hufflepuff of all people. The common consensus seemed to be something along the lines of 'seriously, it's bad enough that we lost, but to _Hufflepuff?_ HUFFLEPUFF? What madness is this?' The three badgers in the room all looked rather affronted.

As the boys made a beeline towards Daphne (Hermione had been commandeered by the medi-witch and they had no desire to fight Pomfrey for her prize), the tent flap opened once again. The rest of the Hufflepuff team charged in, faces alight. "You did brilliantly!" Cedric exclaimed.

Daphne glanced over at Astoria, who had followed her Housemates and was chattering away in excitement. A tiny frown marred her features before she turned her attention to the boys. "That was fairly embarrassing."

"Well, they had brooms."

"I know. But still." She shook her head in bemusement. "We had Summoned a set of Bludgers that we were going to set loose on them. Then the Gryffindors arrived, and we had to deal with them." She grimaced. "That did not work out well."

"Yeah, but if you look at it strategically, it makes sense," Harry admitted. "They had the least time to make defenses. If they could take out Slytherin, they'd have a fort of their own."

Daphne snorted. "It made no sense whatsoever, Harry. They would have too many losses to make the assault worth it."

"But did they know that?" Harry shot back. "The stereotype in Gryffindor is that we aren't good with face-to-face confrontations, that all we can do is work in the shadows. _How_ they held onto that idea with Malfoy and his goons running around these last few years I'll never know. Not to mention Snape. Those four are nothing if not straightforward."

"But they're not powerful magically," Daphne reminded him. "Snape was the only competent one of the lot, and even he preferred bullying to battle." She nodded. "You're right, Harry. From the Gryffindors' perspective, that was a decent strategy. I wouldn't call it brilliant, though."

"Fair enough," the boy acquiesced.

"It isn't," Daphne reasserted.

Harry nodded.

"Should have gone after the Ravenclaws," Blaise mused. "They have that reputation for knowing theory more than practice."

"Maybe they were afraid of Hermione," Harry joked. He glanced over at his other friend, who had finally managed to escape Madam Pomfrey's clutches (though this had less to do with Hermione's skills and more to do with the medi-witch noticing that the Hufflepuff newcomers had some nasty avian-induced cuts and bug bites that needed her attention) and was making her way over to them.

"What, weren't they afraid of me?" Daphne muttered, eyebrow arching.

"Who wasn't afraid of you?" Hermione wondered.

"The Gryffindors. We were just saying that they didn't go after Ravenclaw because they were afraid of you. Well, Harry was." Blaise made a kissy face.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Becoming more serious, the black boy reached out, laid his hand on her shoulder. "But it's good to see you safe and well." The hand squeezed. "I was worried for a while. We all were. And now we're just thrilled you're back."

Hermione flushed. They both knew he wasn't referring to her unconsciousness in the Tournament. The orange in her eyes seemed to glow and she softly replied, "Thank you."

"No. Thank _you_ for coming back to us safe and sound." Blaise gave her shoulder one final squeeze before dropping his hand to his side. Then he realized just how sappily he was behaving and flushed. "I have to share the dorm with Harry, you know, and he'd be impossible to live with if anything happened to you."

Hermione grinned. "I see."

"I wasn't that bad," Harry grumbled.

"Yes, you were."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Have you talked with Neville yet?"

"He came over a bit before you did, but then the other Gryffindors dragged him back to their table. They don't seem to trust him very much, poor thing."

This was when Madam Pomfrey realized that her sanctuary had been invaded and when Harry and Blaise figured out why virtually nobody else had come to offer congratulations. "Out!" Pomfrey cried, waving her wand at them. "You two, out! This is too crowded already!"

The boys fled, followed closely by the girls. Hopefully Pomfrey wouldn't notice that two of her patients were missing. Hopefully.

"I was a bit worried about that," Hermione confessed, voice low, as they made their way across campus. "What if she'd noticed that I'm… different now?"

"I don't think that's likely," Harry pointed out. "She was pretty busy, and a lot of the others were worse off than you."

Hermione acknowledged his reasoning with a nod. "But still, I couldn't help but worry. I'll have to try to avoid her from now on." She gave herself a tiny shake. "Not that anyone wants to need the school nurse."

"True," Blaise agreed. "Hey, is that Neville?"

Yes, yes it was Neville. The Gryffindor was waiting by the doors. When he saw them, he lifted his hand in a wave. "You guys have no idea how nice it is to see you all together now."

Harry thought of Hermione, gone for weeks; of Blaise, sometimes mercurial but always able to cheer him up; of Daphne, strong and solemn and a devoted protector of her Hufflepuff sister, who really didn't need protection at all. He thought of Neville the Gryffindor laughing and joking with three Slytherins and a Ravenclaw, of a ram within a lamb.

The Lightning Speaker smiled. "Actually, Neville, I think I do."

* * *

><p>Gregory Goyle did not attend the celebration feast. The item in his pocket robbed him of his appetite.<p>

It had taken him and both his parents days to come up with a good plan for getting Harry's blood. The other Slytherin was known for his paranoia, so he could hardly sneak up on the boy and clobber him over the head like he had with Mark. Something more subtle was needed.

Hence the nosebleed and the bloody handkerchief in his pocket, a tiny scrap of cloth that weighed a thousand pounds and burned like fire. So innocuous, yet it would be used for something so terrible.

Yes, would be. He'd seen the thing, seen it torture his parents, felt it torture him. He had to obey it. What if it put his parents under the Cruciatus again?

Swallowing heavily, Goyle extracted the hankie from his pocket. The blood had dried, rust red against the cream background. The silk fabric rippled from the trembling in his hands.

His dad had given him a mokeskin pouch when he went off to Hogwarts. He hadn't used it for much more than treats that he didn't want Crabbe to get his grubby hands on. Now, though, he dumped out the assorted sweets, leaving the pouch completely empty.

Empty save for a scrap of blood and silk.

* * *

><p>Confession time: I'm a Hufflepuff on Pottermore. However, I decided that the badgers would win this Tournament months before getting into that House. Don't know why-maybe a part of me realized that I was a Hufflepuff at heart, not a Ravenclaw like I'd always thought of myself as. So House loyalty had nothing to do with my decision, as it's rather difficult to be loyal to your House when you don't know what your House is.<p>

Next up: the epilogue. It'll be up sometime on October 25. Until then, enjoy.

Also, please check out my profile for a poll about what to name the changeling. I've gotten lots of great suggestions from you guys.

-Antares


	25. Epilogue: Blood of the Enemy

_Most goblins hope and pray that the Lightning Speaker is merely a myth—for if he is real, so are the Spider and the Viper._

_-Sayern nar'Hazozh _(_History of the Treaty_), translated circa 1952

He was vaguely aware that he wasn't quite there, wasn't present to stop this atrocity. He was vaguely aware that his body tossed and turned far away, sweat beading on its brow, scar in agony. But most of his awareness was taken up by the scene before him.

One of his classmates, the Slytherin Gregory Goyle, fidgeted in the corner of the room. He too stared at the ceremony—for what else could it be but a ceremony?—in fear. The light of the flame, dim red like smoldering embers, and the unnatural luminescence of the potion simmering above it cast the boy's face in sharp shadows, making his rough features more brutish than normal, his chin more pronounced, his nose a mountain. The flames reflected in his enormous eyes.

A thick man fussed over the fire, prodding at it with his wand. Once in a while he would glance up at an equally stocky woman, who stood guard over a bundle of cloth. The watcher did not like that bundle of cloth; he loathed it with an automatic, unreasoning hatred. It seemed to contain all that was wrong in the world.

"It's ready," the man—Goyle's father, he must be—grunted. The woman jerked her head in a nod. Arms trembling, she picked up the bundle.

Far to the north, a sweat-drenched boy let out a low moan.

The woman who could only be Goyle's mother staggered towards the cauldron. Jaw tight, trying not to look at the abomination in her arms, she unwrapped the bundle. One layer gone, and the boy shuddered. Two layers were removed and the monstrosity underneath was revealed to the world. Maggot-pale and slightly slimy, it vaguely resembled the fetus of a monster: large head; weak, spindly limbs; sunken chest. And the eyes: crimson eyes, bright and dark and horrible like blood whipped into foam, like death itself.

Goyle's mother could not bear to see it either, for she dumped it into the cauldron and half-sprinted backwards, her expression one of utter disgust. The watcher found himself hoping, pleading, praying that the thing was dead, that it had drowned, that the potion had been specifically designed to kill it. It was a blight on the face of the world, wrong to an extent he could not comprehend.

Something flickered in the atmosphere, a strong presence that he slipped behind. It felt like safety and home and hope, and he desperately needed those things. He needed them even more when the ritual began.

Goyle's father unwrapped another bundle. The watcher dreaded seeing what was inside this one, for after seeing the thing emerge from the first…. But no. The contents of this package were by no means _good_, but at least they were a natural foulness, something that did not make the universe rebel. The bones were yellowed and fragile with age, the flesh mercifully stripped away. Goyle Senior handled them delicately for such a large man, though he could not stop his hands from trembling.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"

The bones fell into the cauldron. Light flared as the liquid changed color. Cyan light tinted the Goyles' skin, giving them the pallor of corpses.

The watcher whimpered. 'Renewing' did not sound like the monster was going to die. _Why are you doing this? Can't you see how foul, how unspeakably WRONG, this is? Stop it Goyle! Stop it! Make it stop!_ He wished with all his heart that he was here in person, that he could do something other than bear helpless witness to an atrocity, a perversion of nature and magic and all that was right and good with the world. But at the same time, he was so, so grateful that his true self was safe and snug and sound in bed, possibly hundreds of miles away from this terrible terrible scene.

Goyle Senior blanched. He glanced at his wife, at his son, and swallowed once. One hand reached into his robe, extracted a dagger that glowed blue in the potion's unnatural light. The other hand lifted up his shirt, revealing a rather large belly. The watcher really could have gone without seeing that belly. He took one glance and returned his attention to the knife, which was objectively more important.

"F-f-f-f-flesh," the man gasped, "flesh of the servant, willingly given—" His eyes squeezed shut; the muscles in his face jumped. "—you will revive your master!"

_No! _the watcher wanted to scream. _It's not worth it! Stop this insanity!_

But Goyle did not hear the spy's desperate, silent pleas. He plunged the dagger into his ample belly, gouging out a chunk of fat and skin and meat. If the watcher had been there in person, he would have gagged. Gasping, almost sobbing with pain, the man threw the piece of his own body into the potion. The blue brightened to hard red, not the color of blood or fire but something worse than either. The very light of it burned.

The sweat-drenched boy whimpered.

Goyle Senior gestured at his son. The younger Slytherin started, swallowed, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down. Very slowly, he reached into his pocket, withdrew a single scrap of fabric, rust-colored fabric, lurid in the red light. The watcher had no doubt that it was blood.

The protective presence seemed to snarl in fury.

The younger Goyle surrendered the stained cloth to his father, who brought it over to the horrible cauldron. Hand outstretched, the older man incanted, "Blood of the enemy—"

The watcher couldn't bear it anymore. He tried to charge the older wizard, to knock him to the ground, but he could not. His body was back in Scotland, writhing in his bed, and he could not move this new spirit form. He was paralyzed, his limbs frozen, even as his true body tossed and turned.

"—forcibly taken—"

But he had to _try_, didn't he? He railed against his limitations; it felt as though he were pinned under tons of stone and was trying to push them off his chest. It didn't work. The stones were just too strong.

"—you will resurrect your foe!"

The boy in Scotland howled in despair.

The potion flared, blazed more brightly than ever before. The flames beneath it leapt up, licking the sides of the enormous cauldron. Bubbles rose to the surface of the liquid and burst, releasing a thick curtain of steam.

_Nonononono, let it have failed, pleaseohplease let it have failed…._

But he knew in his bones that this ceremony, this abomination, had not been in vain.

Sure enough, a figure as long and pale and slender as the bone which had brought him back was rising from the mists. "Robe me," it hissed, its voice like that of a snake.

Without a word, Goyle Senior offered a fine dark robe to the figure in the smoke, to his master.

The mists cleared, revealing a face and form out of nightmares. Crimson eyes, white face, slitted nostrils. Thin lips twisted into an evil smirk.

Voldemort.

Hundreds of miles away, Mark Potter woke with a scream.

* * *

><p>Duh duh DUH!<p>

Yes. This is obviously going to be a big part of Book 5's plot. I... still have to make an outline (and a start) on the book itself, but it'll definitely involve old Voldie here. The first chapter (or maybe prologue) should be up on November 15, assuming that school doesn't kill me first. I think it's trying. I'll post a brief note on this story, too, when the first part of Book 5 is up.

You can still vote for the changeling's name on my profile poll. The poll will stay open until the changeling actually shows up.

Happy Halloween!

-Antares


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